Love Comes Softly
by Sache8
Summary: Upon the death of her betrothed, a heartbroken Lothíriel agrees to marry King Éomer for the good of her country. Can true love be found again in the comfort of shared grief and friendship? ÉomerLothíriel LothírielOther
1. The Darkness and the Light

**TITLE**- Love Comes Softly 

**AUTHOR**- Sache8 

**RATING**- PG-13 (for eventual, very mild, implied sensuality) 

**GENRE**- Romance/ Angst 

**SUMMARY**- Upon the death of her betrothed, a heartbroken Lothíriel agrees to marry King Éomer for the good of her country. Can true love be found again in the comfort of shared grief and friendship? 

**DISCLAIMER**- Lord of the Rings and all its associations are the creation of the ever-wonderful J.R.R. Tolkien. We are forever grateful. I only hope this story does him justice in spirit, but I'm not earning a dime from it. Also, the title belongs to Janette Oke.

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**LOVE COMES SOFTLY**

_By Sache8_

**Chapter One**— _The Darkness and the Light_

In times of darkness, the strength of men is often tested in unexpected ways. The wise might succumb to fear and madness; a squire might become a hero to thousands. A child might inspire the courage of a despairing warrior. A nation might rise as one in the face of hopeless oppression. A woman might rule a great province in the stead of those who were surely marching to their deaths. 

It was a testament to the evil and the desperation of the times that Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, had departed his homeland for Minas Tirith, taking with him his three sons and almost all of his forces. "If the White City falls," he told his daughter, "the conquest of Dol Amroth will be inevitable. Everything must be risked to face it." Under no other circumstances would the prince have left his daughter and his people so defenseless but for the smallest of hopes that this chance might ultimately save them all. 

Difficult was the parting for Imrahil and his sons from their wives, daughters, and sister. Few words were spoken. Although sincere, embraces were stiff and strained. Lothíriel understood the fear that resided within all of them. The fear was dark, and so pervading that they feared dwelling too long upon things dearly loved might cause the fear to become victor, and courage to be lost. Honor and valor were the mightiest weapons left to the men of the West. 

Lothíriel too was afraid, though not of her ability to govern the city in her father's absence. She was strong and wise, and had learned well in her twenty years. Rather, she feared the cataclysm that would surely fall upon her city if the defenders of Gondor failed against the Enemy. She understood, with grim certainty, that the inevitable holocaust _would_ fall upon the helpless people who remained behind, and though she would fight until her last breath was spent to defend them, she knew she would ultimately be powerless to stop it. 

Like her father and her brothers, however, Lothíriel clung to hope by means of her resolve. She would not abandon her duty to her people. And so she kept the long and steadfast vigil from the city by the sea. Her companions were the wives of her brothers, their children, and Belfarion, an aged and seasoned warrior from a time before her birth. An accident had long ago crippled him, yet he still retained the fierceness and courage of his youth. Since that time, he had served her father as chief advisor in matters of war. With Belfarion at her side, Lothíriel needed not share her burden of leadership alone, and the presence of her sisters helped to ease her loneliness. The small band took comfort in one another during the dark, uncertain days of torturous waiting. They waited for the sound of hooves from Gondor. They waited for news, good or ill. 

To ease this maddening trial of vigilance, the women of Dol Amroth, and what men remained to help, made preparations to fortify and prepare the city for siege, not only for themselves, but for refugees that would certainly be driven south by the Enemy's forces. Battlements were reinforced. The defenses of the harbor were strengthened and improved. Belfarion and his small contingent of men trained strong lads and their mothers in the use of the bow and the sword. Foodstuffs were gathered and preserved. And still they waited. 

When at last the long-awaited day came upon them, however, it was not on the heels of a steed but the voice of the wind. Lothíriel had been shipboard, returning to the shore after an inspection of the city's fleet with Belfarion when the wind suddenly died and the waters calmed. A hush fell upon the sailors and the shore alike, and it seemed to Lothíriel that the sky was darker and the world held its breath. 

"Our doom is upon us at last," said Belfarion said gravely and quietly at her side. Lothíriel did not reply, her gaze transfixed upon the northeastern sky. There did not seem to be words appropriate to speak beyond what Belfarion had already observed. 

Then suddenly, as though a veil had been torn in two, the darkness was lifted away and the wind rushed in fast and cold, filling the sails. Lothíriel laughed when it whipped her hair and her skirts, and was surprised to find tears of joy upon her cheeks, though she was not certain from whence the joy had come. She bid the sailors take them to shore, and that evening the people of Dol Amroth slept with serenity more complete than any it had known in a generation. 

It was six days afterward before the expected riders came, bearing the news that Lothíriel already knew in her heart. The guard of the watchtower spied the banner of Imrahil in the distance, and in that same moment, the bright and clear sound of trumpets arose forth from the distant company and delivered a message of victory. Joyfully, the city flung open its gates and every bell in every street corner answered the call of the trumpets in full kind. The company rode tall through the gates with speed and pride, their faces alight with unmitigated joy, led by a figure Lothíriel soon recognized as her brother, Erchirion. "Victory!" he cried again and again, thrusting his shining sword into the sky as he rode toward the citadel, and the people responded with rapturous tumult. "Our Enemy is broken! Hail Gondor and Dol Amroth! Hail Imrahil! Hail Elessar Elfstone!" 

Erchirion's mount had barely slowed in the courtyard of the Citadel before he had alighted. His wife of less than a year, Falmaien, stood at the head of the women gathered to greet him. Her eyes shone like the sun on the harbor as she watched him dismount, and when he kissed her passionately, in full view of the company, she blushed but did not object. 

Lothíriel was the next recipient of her brother's affection—an engulfing embrace of relief and joy. "It is well to see you, sister," he said quietly when he pulled away, his eyes alight with pride. He turned to take in all those gathered there—Lothíriel, Falmaien, Elphir's wife, Adlóriel, their two children, and Belfarion. "I bring the best of tidings," he said to them. "Sauron has been utterly defeated. The strength of Mordor is crumbled into ruin and smoke, and the heir of Elendil sets his face to assume the throne of Gondor." 

There was an expression of wonderment at these words from all there gathered. "Isildur's heir?" Belfarion asked, stepping forward. "That line was said to have perished long ago." 

"It has lain in secret and in wait for our time of need," Erchirion assured him. "And has proven instrumental in this victory." 

"You must tell us this tale in full, Erchirion," said Adlóriel. "And give us word of those we love." 

"That word I bring willingly and gladly, sister. Your husband is alive and well, as well as my Lord Imrahil and my brother Amrothos." There was a cry of delight at these words. "As for the tale," he continued, "I will tell you a little, but the full honor must be saved for ballad-makers worthier than I. But come! We must prepare, for I am sent to bring my father's house to Minas Tirith to greet the arrival of Lord Elessar. It is a time for celebration and rejoicing, for the shadow has passed!" 

There was a cheer, and a those assembled hastened to heed Erchirion's word. All excepting Lothíriel. She stood behind, and pierced her brother with an unspoken question in her eyes as the others rushed past. For his part, Erchirion seemed to anticipate her action, for he caught her eye regretfully and stepped close before her. "Let us walk apart, sister." 

He led her quietly to a private garden where a fountain stood idle. With the tidings Erchirion brought, it would soon be alive once more, a symbol of the newfound life and hope given to all those who lived in Middle Earth. Yet the expression Erchirion had given her made Lothíriel suspect she would wish it to be silent yet awhile longer. 

"You cannot say the words I'd hoped to hear you speak," she said quietly. "Else you would have done so with the others." 

Erchirion shook his head sadly. He put his hands on her shoulders and gazed sadly down upon her face. "Prince Théodred did not survive this scourge, Lothíriel. He fell in Rohan many weeks ago, trying to hold his withering country together. I am sorry." 

It was well that her brother's arms were already upon her, for at these words, Lothíriel gave a cry of utter grief and fell completely within them. The embrace, so similar and yet so different from that with which he'd first greeted her, was all that held her on her feet. 

A few moments later, Falmaien, venturing in search of her wayward husband, discovered them thus. "Lothíriel!" she cried in surprise and dismay, and rushed forward, drawing her into her own arms and guiding her to a seat upon the edge of the nearby fountain. "Sister, what is wrong?" She drew a kerchief from her pocket and handed it to Lothíriel. When Lothíriel failed to reply, however, Falmaien looked to Erchirion in bewilderment. 

"Théodred of Rohan is fallen," he said simply. 

Sudden realization overcame the younger woman's features, followed swiftly by pity. As the newest member of the family, Falmaien was least familiar with Lothíriel's longstanding betrothal to the heir of Rohan. "Lothíriel, I am sorry!" she cried, pulling Lothíriel's weeping head against her breast. She rocked her softly as a mother might a child. She looked up at Erchirion sadly. "Perhaps it would be best if you leave her to her grief," she said quietly at his helpless expression. 

He lingered a moment more, looking uncertain, before he nodded and took his leave. Falmaien remained with her, silent and comforting, while the city's bells continued to ring their jubilation around them, until the evening shadows had fallen upon the garden. When at last Lothíriel seemed to succumb to her grief and exhaustion, Falmaien saw to it she was settled away comfortably for the night, and prayed the Valar would grant her the serenity of a dreamless sleep. 

Thus Lothíriel of Dol Amroth felt the mingling of joy and sorrow that befell the hearts of so many, and felt within her the sharpness of the price paid for freedom. She rejoiced for a hope reborn, and wept for a love lost forever, and her heart was bittersweet.

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**A/N:**- This little tale I've had in my head for quite some time, and finally, out of nowhere, got the inspiration to actually _start_ it. I hope you enjoy. A quickie note— the title is snitched from a Janette Oke book of the same name, and I decided I liked it because the bare bones premise of both stories is the same. 

Feedback is welcome and appreciated! 

Saché 


	2. The Prince and the Princess

**Chapter Two**—_The Prince and the Princess _

Little was seen of Lothíriel the following morning, and it was midday before Adlóriel and Falmaien sought her out. Prince Imrahil kept two council halls, one within doors and one without, and it was in the latter that they found her, sitting quietly, lost in thought. Her grief was still fresh upon her face, but there was an acceptance in her eyes that relieved the two women greatly. 

"Lothíriel," said Adlóriel timidly, stepping forward. The princess looked up in surprise at the sound of her name. "Will you not come in for dinner?" Adlóriel continued. "You have not eaten all morning." 

"I am not hungry," Lothíriel replied. 

"You must eat," Adlóriel urged, taking a seat beside her and grasping her hand comfortingly. "We are called to Gondor upon the morrow. You need your strength." 

At this, Lothíriel resigned. "Very well," she said, "But please, not this moment. I will join you this evening for supper." 

When Adlóriel and Falmaien departed, Lothíriel stood and walked slowly around the courtyard, and a memory came upon her, a memory of a child and a soldier. She gave a small, sad smile, but there was none there to see.

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_Year 3008 of the Third Age_

For a small girl growing up in a court of only adults, life could be very frustrating, especially for one like Lothíriel, who desperately wanted to know everything her father was doing. For six days now, all her elders had been able to talk about was the imminent arrival of some important people from another country across the mountains. Lothíriel gathered that these people had come a very long way to visit, but nobody would tell her anything! Even Amrothos was no help. Since he'd turned fourteen, her youngest brother fancied himself too manly to play with Lothíriel or to speak with her for very long. 

Fortunately, she had long ago discovered that being small sometimes had its advantages. There was a dusty, narrow window in a little-used storage room that overlooked her father's council courtyard. Very soon, even Lothíriel would be too large to fit through it, but today she hiked her skirts around her knees and slipped deftly out onto the branches of the tree that grew tall outside, obscuring the window from view. She'd begun eavesdropping on council sessions this way from the time she was seven years old and had never been discovered. When she learned that her father was even now escorting their guests here, Lothíriel had wasted no time in hastening to her hiding place. She arrived with just enough time to settle herself in her favorite nook between two branches. 

When the men filed into view from the far entrance to the courtyard, it was not difficult to distinguish which were the visitors, even if Lothíriel hadn't already known the names and faces of all her father's advisors. All three strangers had hair the color of wheat in late autumn, and Lothíriel stared down at the tops of their heads with interest, for they had been seated directly below her position. Her own countrymen were overwhelmingly dark-haired, and it was rare to see even one person of fair coloring, let alone three together. 

The men talked for a significant period of time, and Lothíriel had to strain to hear the conversation. It was difficult, for the men spoke in low, serious voices, and she was quite some distance above them. The visitors brought grave tidings about the world at large, which she did not altogether understand, but she did learn that the visitors were from a country called Rohan, a place she'd learned about in her studies, and that they had come quite far, and that it had been many years since Rohan and Dol Amroth had been in direct communication. All these things Lothíriel took note of with interest and stored them in her memory. She was extremely fond of learning about other places and people, how they dealt with each other, how they were different from the things she knew. This was chiefly the reason she'd begun spying on her father in the first place. 

At length, they spoke of trade and more commonplace matters, and by the time they adjourned—Imrahil having extended a warm invitation to dinner—Lothíriel was relieved. Her legs, back, and bottom were by now quite weary of her uncomfortable perch on the branches. She remained still until the last of the men had departed and then stood up with relief, still clinging to branches. She made her way as speedily as possible back towards the window, but had only made it about halfway when she froze at the sound of someone returning. 

"Tell Lord Imrahil I shall attend him momentarily. I have forgotten something within," called the strong male voice. Through the screen of leaves, Lothíriel could see one of the Rohirrim returning, and could only hope he wouldn't notice her. In her current position, she was far more visible than she'd been before. 

To her horror, however, he did not stop to look for something misplaced or forgotten, as he'd said, but came straight to her tree and looked up into the branches, fixing her with an amused expression. "Dol Amroth is a strange country indeed where birds take on the appearance of small lasses," he said. His hands were on his hips and his eyes were laughing. 

Lothíriel's own eyes widened in shock and dismay. She could only stare back at him, frozen and fearful. He seemed to sense her anxiousness. "Can you climb down?" he asked kindly. 

She gave a mute nod. Red-faced, she began her descent, though it took some managing in her long skirt. Climbing _down_ the tree was a different matter than climbing across it. When she arrived at the bottommost branches, the stranger reached up with his arms and helpfully lowered her the rest of the way to the ground. "How did you get up there?" he asked curiously, gauging the distance between the ground and the branches with his eyes, then taking note of her small figure. 

"Through the window, my Lord," she said in a small voice. This man had been the leader of the Rohirrim. He was a prince. 

Frowning, the prince stepped closer to the trunk of the tree and squinted up through the branches. "Ah," he said knowingly a moment later. "So I see." He turned back to her. "My name is Théodred. And what is yours, lass?" 

"Lothíriel, my Lord. Prince Imrahil is my father." 

"And why were you spying on us?" 

She made a sulking face, stuck out her chin, and folded her arms stubbornly. "Because no one will tell me things," she said. At this, the prince began laughing loudly, and Lothíriel frowned further. She did not find the matter very funny. 

"How did you know where I was?" she finally worked up the courage to ask, partly to interrupt his amusement at her expense. 

"I saw you, but you did not notice." 

"Are you going to tell my father?" 

Théodred cocked his head and studied her thoughtfully. "I do not think you meant any harm," he said at last. "However, I would ask you not to do such a thing again, at least not while I am here, for then I shall be honor-bound to tell him." 

Lothíriel found this stipulation bothersome, but she was hardly in any position to bargain. "Agreed," she said, nodding slowly. 

"How old are you, child?" 

"Nine. How old are you?" 

"Much older than that." 

"I think you must be as old as my brother Elphir," she said knowingly. 

"And how old is that?" 

"Elphir is twenty-one years of age." 

He laughed. "Nay, I am older still. I have lived as long as your brother and again as long as you." 

Lothíriel frowned a little, focusing upon the riddle in his words until she understood his meaning. "You are thirty?" she asked hesitatingly after a brief moment. 

"I am." 

She gave a serious nod. "You _are_ old, my Lord." 

He laughed again. "Well, Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, your secret is safe with me. But I must leave you now, for your father has invited me to dinner and I am very hungry." 

"I will probably be at the dinner as well, my Lord." 

"Well, when we are introduced I shall be pleased to meet you," he said. 

At this, Lothíriel could not help but smile. "Very well, my Lord." 

"If you wait here for a few moments, I shall make sure the corridor beyond is clear, so that you do not have to depart by the tree when you leave," he added conspiratorially. 

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle and nodded. "Thank you, my Lord," she said, and watched him depart.

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Lothíriel's eyes lingered in memory for a few moments. She had never told another of that day, and now the secret was hers alone once more. Two silent tears escaped her eyes. She wiped them away hastily and gave a small shake in an effort to dispel her stupor. "Perhaps I _will_ go to dinner," she said softly to herself.

The relief of her sisters and Erchirion was great upon her arrival. Lothíriel took her place at the right hand of her brother, and said little, but picked at her food and listened as Erchirion told them more news of the war and the celebration forthcoming. 

"Lord Elessar camps upon the field of Cormallen, and approaches the city at his leisure," he said. "He hastens not, for there are many with him who are weary from hard toil and long, ceaseless battle. Our father and our countrymen attend him, as well as the Riders of Rohan and their King." 

Lothíriel was surprised at this news. When last she had spoken with Théodred, his father had been very ill and in no condition to fight, but that had been almost three years ago. "King Théoden rides with him?" she asked. 

Erchirion shook his head. "Nay," he said sadly, "King Théoden fell at the Battle of Pelennor. Many now mourn him, for his deeds there were valiant and worthy of great song. The kingship has passed to his nephew, Éomer, son of Éomund." 

The eyes of Lothíriel's sisters were attentively upon her as they spoke of these matters concerning Rohan. She nodded gravely. "Théodred spoke often of his cousins," she said. "He loved them as a brother and a sister." 

"Éomer has gained the highest respect and friendship of both Lord Elessar and our father," Erchirion sad. "His part in the battle, too, was very great, as was that of his sister, the Lady Éowyn." 

"A lady partook in the battle?" Falmaien asked in surprise, and leaned forward, her face full of interest. 

"Yea, with courage greater than that of threescore men." 

Erchirion spoke a while longer on sundry matters, before once again speaking of the Lord Elessar. "When all are gathered and renewed," he said, "the heir of Elendil will come to city to claim his kingship, and he bids as many come as are willing, from all the lands of Middle Earth. 

"And we depart tomorrow?" Lothíriel asked. Having cloistered herself away all morning, she was unaware of what preparations had already been made. 

"At first light," Adlóriel confirmed. Her eyes focused on something only she could see, and her face became radiant. "I cannot wait to see Elphir again." 

"Will the children be accompanying us?" 

"Yes, and many of our people as well. Belfarion has agreed to supervise the city in our absence." 

"He declares he is too old for journeys," Falmaien remarked with a small smile, "but I believe he simply does not care for them." 

"Peculiar, do not you agree, for one who has known success as a soldier?" noted Adlóriel, gazing across the table at the old captain with a shrew smile. There was a chorus of laughter, and even Lothíriel smiled. The general fondness for Belfarion was very great. 

Despite her sorrow, Lothíriel couldn't help but be affected by the happiness and anticipation of those around her. As the day progressed, she found herself sharing it. She was eager to be reunited with her father, Elphir, and Amrothos. Besides, unlike Belfarion, she was very fond of traveling. and the journey would perhaps provide her with adequate distraction from her grief. 

In her heart, though, she knew that it would not.

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**Replies:**

**smor**- My first reviewer! Huzzah! Being the astute reader that you are, you probably noted that Lothíriel only spoke of Éomer by hearsay in this chapter, so they have not actually met. 

**Eokat**- Thank you! I hope you enjoy the ride. :-) 

**Lackwit**- I am honored that my voices meet your satisfaction. Thanks for your review, and I hope you stick around! 

**Spacepirate**- The particular passage you singled out was born of my belief that a great many people were cognizant of the moment of the ring's destruction, all through Middle Earth, just as Faramir and Éowyn were on the wall of the city. And yes, your opinion of the style made sense to me, and I'm glad to hear it. I only hope I can maintain a consistency throughout. Depending on my mood, I can get too flowery with the language, or too sloppy. 

**Silawen**- Thank you for pointing me towards Countries United! I spent the morning exploring some of the stories there. I will certainly seek to archive, but I believe I will wait until the story is complete first, in case there's anything major I decide to adjust in retrospect. 

**Shallindra**- You know, at this point I have trouble remembering how I first thought of Théodred and Lothíriel myself. :-P 

**Tracey**- I am flattered and delighted to be neither silly nor trivial. Seriously, your review made me feel very good. Thank you. :-) 

**Drylith**- I guess those elves are just too dazzling, aren't they? LOL But I think Éomer is slowly garnering the attention he deserves, and not only from me. 

**sg1scribe**- I am taking this down a valley of angst… whoa, sorry. Shan't reveal too much. (besides, I'm going to frighten you away. Don't worry, it is actually a plot, with angst as an automatic side effect). Thank you for your review. 

**lady scribe of avandell**- Oh dear goodness, you are making me blush. I try to respect Tolkien's style as far as my own will allow. What does "sere mi eru" mean? I have not made any intense study of Elvish. Heck, I have not even made any casual study of Elvish. I _assume_ that's what you were writing in, anyway. LOL 

**Mystikal**- Unfortunately, the direction I have already intended for this story necessitates a discussion between Lothíriel and Éomer before they marry, so your idea must be passed by, but that does not mean I do not appreciate it! I like to incorporate reader ideas when I can, if I like them enough and they are compatible with my own. The betrothal between Théodred and Lothíriel was very unique, as you shall see. I hope it is satisfactory. 

**Elijahcat**- I confess, I _have_ noticed the trend to portray Lothíriel as a firebrand, which is odd, because I have always thought the opposite. But I would be false as an authoress if I did not confess that my desire to write about Éomer was in a _small_ part due to his hotness. There. Now I fear I shall frighten you away. LOL 

**Angel of the Night Watchers**- Thank you for your lovely compliments. I enjoy Janette Oke's writing in general, although sometimes my enjoyment is more dependent upon the particular story itself.

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**A/N:** First of all, thanks for the overwhelming response! I am glad the Théodred twist came as a surprise to so many, because that was my hope. Speaking of Théodred, however, for those of you sitting there in shock and semi-revulsion at the age gap between him and Lothíriel… well, that's a rather funny story, and I blame everything on Peter Jackson. Curses upon him for his inappropriate age casting! Because of the actor chosen to play him in the film, I had no idea that Théodred was so much older than his cousins. When I found out, I thought at first I could make Lothíriel a bit older, but then learned that Tolkien has a canon age for _her_, as well! By this time, though, the plot bunny was too insistent to be ignored, so I thought about the problem from every angle, and I believe I've come up with a story that will not make Théodred appear a perverted cradle-robber. (Hint— any opinions about my success or failure will be extremely welcome as the story progresses) ;-)

Cheers! 

Saché


	3. Duty and Honor

Dum-da-dum… cue the hero! 

**Chapter Three**— _Duty and Honor _

The evening air about Cormallen hung heavy with serenity and contentment. Peace was something that Éomer of Rohan had known little of in all his years. From the day his father's broken body had been borne home to Aldburg, he had somehow understood his life would be one of hardship. He had been fighting battles of the sword and of the mind for so long that the celebration ongoing about him seemed as though it were a dream. Or perhaps he was finally emerging from a nightmare into a long-awaited reward. He was eager to embrace this possibility. 

The King of Rohan's tent was pitched near the center of the encampment, west of Aragorn's, and he stood without, noting the brightness of the moon and wondering how Éowyn fared in Minas Tirith. The muffled sound of minstrels could be heard from the pavilion beyond the pitch where the lords' tents were gathered. Every evening there would be lit lanterns, hung upon poles, surrounding the pavilion, and a great feast would be laid out, and the evening would be spent in tales and wine and pleasing conversation amongst the heroes of the war. 

Éomer had spent the afternoon hours in the company of his new holbyta squire, teaching him how to better care for his pony and the king's horse in the manner of the Rohirrim. Éowyn had not misjudged the character of Meriadoc Brandybuck, no matter his stature. The halfling was not only clever and valiant, but well-named, for he was truly merry, in both heart and countenance. They spoke of many things. Merry's homeland, his journey, his love of Théoden and Éowyn. In turn, Éomer told him many glorious tales of Théoden King, and the memories were good, and in this way the king and the halfling assuaged the grief they both so strongly shared. 

At length, Éomer had released his charge for the evening, knowing that Merry preferred to spend as much time as possible with his kinsmen. The Ringbearer was still recovering from his weary road to Orodruin; Gandalf confided that he might perhaps never fully recover. He spent most of his days and nights at rest, typically waking for a few hours in the evening. Éomer certainly did not grudge Merry the time to visit. 

Before the night was out he would join the others in feasting and in song, but first Éomer had his own visit to make. Éowyn was not the only lady upon whom his thoughts had dwelt of late. By now, word would have reached Dol Amroth of Sauron's fall, and the Lady Lothíriel would have learned of Théodred's death, if she had not known beforehand. Éomer found that his heart grieved for her. Though he did not know the lady, he knew how much Théodred had cared for her. 

_"She is as fair as the stars, Éomer, with the wisdom of a king and a heart like the sea she loves so well." _

Their love had come swiftly, and now would linger only as a memory, a flickering candle quickly snuffed by the ravages of war, forgotten against the luster of grander tales. Even now, Éowyn and Éomer were the only ones among the Rohirrim who knew of the betrothal, for Théodred had been wary in those days of yielding any sort of information to the potential manipulation of Gríma Wormtongue. By that time, the serpent had already wedged his poisonous bars of deceit and suspicion within the court of Rohan, and Éomer and Théodred had been increasingly helpless to thwart him. 

And so Éomer felt a strange sort of kinship with the lady. Separated though they were by mountains and miles and a lack of acquaintance, she must be suffering a grief that surpassed even his own. Never in his most vivid nightmares had Éomer allowed himself to fear the loss of both his uncle and his cousin. Théoden, lord and father, and Théodred, closer than a brother, dearest of friends. Not until these newfound days of peace had Éomer fully realized the void that the loss of Théodred's friendship would leave within him. 

Strangely enough, the friendship newly formed with Prince Imrahil had also lent itself to thoughts of the lady. If she was anything like her father, than Éomer could easily attest how she would be worthy of any man's admiration. Imrahil had become a close friend, mentor, and confidant. Éomer had expressed to his friend the many uncertainties about rulership he suddenly found thrust upon him, uncertainties he was unwilling to display to any but a peer. Aragorn, perhaps, would have been willing to help, but he was much preoccupied with larger matters. Imrahil's advice was encouraging and sound, and Éomer knew the ties between their realms were being forged with great strength. 

It was Imrahil he now sought. He proceeded with confidence through the camp, pausing occasionally to greet one of his men or some other comrade, assuring them he would join them for the festivities, or commenting on their progress of the past few days towards Minas Tirith. He was not surprised, upon arrival, to find that Imrahil had yet to vacate his own tents. Couriers upon swift-footed steeds brought news to and from the city every day. They reported that Lord Faramir was recovering from his wounds. Soon he would be released from the Houses of Healing and assume governorship of the city, but until such a time it was the standard of Dol Amroth that still flew above the Citadel, and Prince Imrahil was kept informed of the preparations being made within. His son Elphir had ridden ahead to supervise in Imrahil's stead. 

Éomer's eyes found the prince as he ducked quietly within the doorway of the tent, returning the respectful nod of the sentry. Imrahil stood before a small, rickety table, surrounded by advisors, a scribe, and the most recent courier. "Have a portion of the soldiers' barracks converted into temporary quarters for visitors," he was saying, tapping two fingers on a section of a map spread out before him. "And issue a request to those who dwell in the city, encouraging them to entertain guests at their discretion." As he spoke, the scribe transferred his instructions to parchment with confidence. 

Imrahil looked up then, and noted Éomer, standing patiently by the doorway. He gave a knowing smile of greeting, and turned back to the courier. "That will be all," he said with finality. 

The courier nodded respectfully. "My Lord," he replied. 

Imrahil stepped away from the table and approached Éomer, greeting him with a soldier's embrace. "Éomer King," he said. "How fares the camp of Rohan this evening?" 

"As always, the noisiest, the smelliest, and the rowdiest, my Lord," Éomer replied, causing Imrahil to laugh heartily. "How fares the realm of Gondor?" he returned, sending a knowing glance and a wry smile towards the table. 

The Prince made a longsuffering expression. "My nephew recovers swiftly," he said, "and will very shortly assume command, at which time I shall be relieved beyond measure. I have enough troubles overseeing the affairs of my own city. No man of sense would desire to govern a second. I believe my Lord Aragorn takes secret delight in testing my allegiance thus." Éomer gave a chuckle as the two men began walking side by side together, out of the tent and towards the pavilion. "But what brings you here, Éomer?" Imrahil continued. 

"A strange and delicate matter," Éomer replied thoughtfully, sobering a little. "One that I would wish to discuss in private." 

Imrahil gave him an odd and curious expression. "Indeed?" He turned and nodded an unspoken dismissal to his advisors, who had been following a few paces behind. They gave their own nods in return and took their leave. "Of what nature is this matter?" he asked, and subtly steered them in a different direction, away from the gathering crowd they would otherwise have joined. 

Éomer paused, and considered his words carefully before speaking. "Doubtless you are aware," he began awkwardly, "of the agreement which existed between your daughter and my late cousin." 

The prince's expression became grave and he nodded. "I had expected you to broach the subject before now," he confessed. "Your silence led me to wonder if you shared knowledge of it." 

"There are few in Rohan who do," Éomer admitted. He clasped his hands behind his back formally as they walked. "I am grateful for the guidance you have given me these past few weeks," he said. "I have given much consideration to the duties and obligations expected of me as king, but upon the subject of marriage we have not spoken." 

"Marriage is a far more complicated matter for a ruler than crops or boundaries," Imrahil said knowingly. "There are personal considerations that must be taken into account beyond the considerations of one's people." He turned to study Éomer carefully, but held his peace, perhaps sensing that the young king had not yet finished with his thoughts. 

Éomer gave a nod of agreement before proceeding. "I would not choose a wife rashly," he said, "but neither would I seek to delay the decision. There is much to be rebuilt and renewed in my country, and the presence of a queen in Edoras would greatly benefit my people, I believe." 

"Dependent on the choice, yes," Imrahil agreed. "But what has this to do with my daughter?" His question was that of a father and a leader, not a casual question between friends. 

Éomer paused in his steps and gave a troubled sigh. "My Lord, I feel a sense of duty towards your daughter, as though the right to be Queen of Rohan is still hers. If she is willing, and if you consent, I would offer myself in my cousin's stead, and honor the agreement still." 

Imrahil's features softened with pity and respect. "You are not responsible for Théodred's death," he said comfortingly. "You need not feel this obligation." 

"Nevertheless, I will stand by my word. At the very least, the benefit of an alliance between our two peoples still stands. And the proposal is merely that. I would not pressure your daughter to make any match, particularly one that might very well bring her painful association. I would understand and sympathize if she chose to reject my offer. In fact, I do not expect her to accept, but perhaps it might bring her comfort." 

"You are probably right," Imrahil agreed. "But what of you, Éomer? You have declared you do not wish to make a choice of wife in haste. What makes you believe Lothíriel would be the kind of wife you wish? You have never even met her." 

"Théodred was more than just my kinsman and captain, Lord Prince. He was as my brother, the truest friend and guide. We endured much together, trying to hold fast the strength of our country when a worm sought to pull it apart. He confided in me often. I know the lady is honorable. I trust Théodred's judgment as I trusted him with my life. In this, my Lord, I have no hesitation." 

Imrahil was silent for many long moments as the two men resumed their methodical pace. At last he said, "I have been proud to call you friend, Éomer King. I would be even more proud to call you my son, as I was proud to call Théodred thus. This union would have my blessing and bring me great joy, but as you say, the choice is ultimately that of my daughter. I expect her and the remainder of my family in Minas Tirith. Before you depart for your home, I will advise her of you request." 

Éomer gave a formal bow, at once strangely relieved, yet anxious. "Thank you, my Lord."

* * *

**Replies:**

**Eokat**- Well, I'm glad someone wasn't unaware of his real age. Although it's buried so deeply in the appendices I felt no guilt at not having retained it before. How was I to know it would one day be relevant? hehe 

**giovanna-scribe**- The story of Lothíriel and Théodred will be told by various means as we go along. I hope you enjoy, and thank you! 

**Tracey**- You know, I thought of that too, in retrospect. Théodred's got nothing on Arwen! LOL Also, I think the word endearing is a good choice to describe the first meeting between him and Lothíriel. 

**lsoa**- Yes, actually. According to the War of the Ring books. There are birth years for her brothers, too, if you want to round out those useless notes: Elphir 2987 Erchirion 2990 Amrothos 2994 Lothíriel 2999. So. Good to know, eh? Hopefully, Lothíriel will be meeting Éomer soon. :-) 

**princess hunny bee**- I agree, the practices of older cultures make this match a little more credible. Also, the political considerations. Thank you for your compliments. 

**Mystikal**- The ol' Prince Princess argument, eh? Irrefutable logic, that. LOL ;-) 

**Katya**- Welcome! I certainly hope this story satisfies your expectations. I suppose the level of 'grand and passionate' will all depend upon your specific interpretation. hehe 

**Spacepirate**- I'm rather fond of the emotional resonance of angst myself. :-) 

**smor**- LOL, I suppose Lothíriel has learned a thing or two from her brothers, but she's not overtly a tomboy. This was just the best method she came up with to spy on dad. She sort of hero-worships him. 

**Angel of the Night Watchers**- Thanks. I enjoyed writing the flashback.

* * *

**A/N:** Cool fact I learned for this update: The Rohirrim have their own word for hobbit: holbyta. Many thanks to **Melyanna**.

Please review! 

Saché


	4. Songbird

**

Chapter Four

**— _Songbird_

Lothíriel stood straight and tall among many other nobles of Gondor before the gates of Minas Tirith, where a great host was assembled. All eyes were upon the battalions of soldiers, from Gondor and Rohan, which had finally reached the city and halted before the multitude. All voices fell silent as eight figures broke away from the legions and approached the gates on foot. 

The first Lothíriel's eyes sought was her father, tall and regal, and she smiled with pride for him, although part of her was desirous to break away and run to his embrace as she had when she was small. She held her peace however, and continued to watch the procession, able to perceive more the closer they came. 

The four men walked abreast, and were flanked on either side by two pairs of smaller figures, _perrianath_ out of legend. Lothíriel could not help but gaze at each in turn for long, wondering moments. By now she had heard the tales in fuller telling, how these had borne the Ring of Power into the heart of the Black Land itself. One of them was clad as the guards of the Citadel, another as a rider of the Mark. The remaining two were dressed simply and stately, and they looked at the crowd with uncertain expressions, their eyes full of wonder. 

On the other side of her father was a young man Lothíriel had never seen, but she knew at once who he was. He wore no helm, and his hair was the color of wheat in late autumn, as she had perceived on his kinsman so many years ago. This was Éomer, the young king of Rohan, cousin to Théodred, and the sight of him caused Lothíriel's heart to wrench with pain once more, for she saw in his bearing the echoes of another she had known so well. She turned her face away, determined not to be distracted by ghosts upon this day. It was a day to celebrate life. 

The third figure was not a man, but Mithrandir, or so Lothíriel knew. She had seen him once before when she was a child, but she did not remember. He was clothed in shining white, and carried a staff. In any other time and place, he might have commanded the greatest attention because of his renown, but on this day all eyes were fixed upon the fourth figure. 

This was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Elessar Elfstone, heir of Númenor, and many other names and titles Lothíriel had heard him called by. By this time the men were very close, and she could perceive the wisdom in his eyes, and the strange timelessness of his face. His features were not old, yet they were full of years and care. 

When the men and halflings reached the assembly before the city gates, they stopped. A ceremonial barrier had been formed—soldiers of Gondor with their swords drawn. Behind them stood many captains of Gondor and Rohan, including Lothíriel's brothers Elphir and Erchirion. With them also stood Éowyn, sister of Éomer, White Lady of Rohan, and last of all Faramir, Lothíriel's cousin, the last Steward of Gondor. 

Lothíriel was proud of the dignity with which Faramir had assumed his unexpected role. The deaths of Boromir and the Lord Denethor had been surprising and grievous to him. Lothíriel couldn't remember either man very well. She had not been to Minas Tirith in three years, and at that time, the Steward and his older son had been too preoccupied with larger matters to be concerned with a seventeen-year-old girl. Only Faramir had taken the time to show her any attention, and she'd always loved him as though he were a fourth older brother. 

Now she looked on as he stepped forward to greet the Lord Aragorn, who charged him with the continued stewardship of Gondor. Then Faramir called forth to the people, and named Aragorn by name, and heralded his claim to the throne. When asked if Aragorn should be king, Lothíriel cried out her affirmation along with all the people, and a great cry of rejoicing was lifted up. 

When at last the gates were opened and the king began to lead the procession within, Lothíriel was reunited with her father. She embraced him warmly, tears of relief spilling from her eyes. There was no time for talk, for there were many more for him to greet, and the king was leading them onward into the city, but Lothíriel took comfort in the moment. 

As she pulled away from her father, Lothíriel observed the Rohirric King withdrawing from his own embrace with his sister, and was surprised when his eyes fell upon her. There he paused for a moment, but quickly and politely averted his gaze when he noted Lothíriel's awareness. She realized, with some puzzlement, that the gaze had not been by chance. He had deliberately sought her out, and his expression had been of mingled pity and curiosity. 

Lothíriel wondered a little at this strange exchange, but put it quickly from her mind. That evening there was a great feast in the king's halls. Lothíriel would have wished to sit with her father, but he was called upon to sit at the king's high table. Instead, she sat with her brother Amrothos. As he yet had no wife, he was unengaged for conversation, and brother and sister were able to acquaint one another of their respective stories during the course of the battle. Amrothos's story was, of course, far more interesting than Lothíriel's, so she mostly found herself listening. 

The banquet continued long into the night, but before it had finished, Lothíriel found her eyes drooping with sleepiness, and a servant escorted her to back to her assigned quarters. She slept without dreaming until she was awoken by sunlight and the voice of a chambermaid. 

"My lady?" the voice prompted gently. 

Lothíriel rolled over to face the speaker, squinting her eyes at the brightness shining off the white stone that edged the large window. She stared dumbly at the maid, trying to collect her thoughts. 

"My lady," the girl continued. "Prince Imrahil bid me ask you to rise. He wishes to speak with you." 

This information managed to pierce the hazy fog of Lothíriel's waking mind. She sat up quickly, and with the maid's assistance was prepared to meet her father within a quarter of an hour. She greeted him eagerly outside in one of the king's many gardens. 

"Lothíriel," he said affectionately. "I have missed you so." 

"I have missed you also, father. I feared for you greatly." 

"I am sorry to have to wake you," he continued, withdrawing from their tight embrace, "but I fear my time will be much devoted to the king for many days, so I was forced to make time to speak with you." 

"It is no matter, father. I am simply glad for the chance. There is much I wish to say to you." 

They spoke of many things. Lothíriel informed him of the state of affairs in Dol Amroth as she had left it, asking his opinion on matters she had been unsure of. He offered wise answers and expressed his pride at many of her decisions. "You would have made a fine ruler, my daughter." 

She also told him of the family, certain antics of her niece and nephews that made him smile, and extended greetings from Belfarion and others that had remained behind. Her father listened politely, but the more Lothíriel spoke, the more she realized that there was something weighing on his mind, something he was in some ways reluctant to impart upon her. 

"Father, what is it that troubles you?" she finally asked. 

He gave her a sidelong, knowing expression, and then a small smile. "I cannot hide anything from you, can I?" His expression sobered. "Lothíriel, I was grieved to learn of Théodred's death. I cannot imagine how it has affected you." 

"Very poorly," she answered. She looked away sadly, lowering her face, and her father drew her into a comforting embrace. Lothíriel closed her eyes but did not weep. All tears that now remained for Théodred she bore in private. 

After a moment, Imrahil pulled away again and looked intently into her face. "Daughter," he said, "it is not my intent to further your sorrow, but I haven't much time. There is something I must speak with you about which concerns your betrothal."

* * *

_Year 3010 of the Third Age _

Eleven-year-old Lothíriel tried her best to avoid her father's eyes as her small fingers plucked confidently on the harp beside her. It was a game of wills they played. She wanted to stay up longer, for the court of Dol Amroth was full of summer guests who had come for her brother's wedding. She did not see why she needed to be sent to bed. After all, Elphir's bride, Adlóriel, was only seventeen—a mere six years older than Lothíriel—and she was allowed to stay up as long as she liked! 

So when an unexpected request had arisen for Lothíriel to play and sing before the company, right when her father had been trying to shuffle her off, Lothíriel had seized the chance, and had deliberately chosen the longest piece she could think of. Never mind that it happened to be a tragic balled of Amroth and Nimrodel, hardly suitable for a wedding. Lothíriel knew that if she met her father's eyes, he would give her a signal to cut it short, and there were still five full verses to be sung. 

By this time, however, her fingers were beginning to get tired, not to mention her voice. Although she had grown almost three inches in the past year and a half, she was still quite small for her age, including her hands, and the distance between the strings she was playing seemed to be getting wider and wider as the song progressed. Still, her father had instilled within her the importance of finishing what one started, and she was going to see this through, no matter how much he might wish her to make an exception in this case. 

When she glanced out at her audience, she had to hold back a giggle. Théodred of Rohan was watching her with a highly amused expression. Lothíriel liked Prince Théodred very much, for he was kind to her, and jovial, and took time to listen to her stories. She knew that, as a mere child, the things she had to say weren't very important to grand men like Théodred, but at least he made her feel as though they were. Not like silly Amrothos, who now seemed to enjoy paying attention to any girl but his own sister! 

Now Théodred's arms were crossed over his chest as he watched her, and his eyes were sparkling with silent laughter. He glanced in the direction of her father and raised his eyebrows, causing Lothíriel to flush with a mixture of increased amusement and embarrassment, but she set her chin proudly and her sights on finishing the song. Her voice was quite hoarse by the last verse, but she maintained her dignity, extricated herself from the stool of the harp, and curtseyed gracefully to the applauding crowd. 

"Thank you, Lothíriel," said her father, standing up. His face was a mask that was only partially successful in hiding his mingled amusement and fatherly irritation. "We were all most grateful for the history lesson." There was a quiet round of chuckles and even Lothíriel's lips twitched a little. 

"Certainly, my Lord," she said, curtseying again to him, and scampered down from the dais as the level of conversation began to pick up once more. She took her place discreetly at the end of the table, and immediately began rubbing her cramped fingers. Perhaps if she were very quiet, her father would become distracted and forget his intentions to send her away. 

"So you are a songbird then, little Lothíriel?" 

Lothíriel jumped slightly, and looked up to see Prince Théodred standing before her, his kind smile full of mirth. Her eyes widened. "Yes, my Lord," she said, nodding. 

"The song was quite lovely. I doubt not even the elves have ever sung it with such… determination." 

Lothíriel was puzzled. "The elves sing it differently than we do, my Lord," she said, her brow furrowing slightly. 

He laughed. "I have brought you a gift," he said then. 

Her eyes widened in delight. "A gift?" she repeated. 

"Yes. I thought that since your brother would be receiving so many tomorrow, you might perhaps feel overlooked." 

"What is it?" she asked eagerly. 

With another chuckle, he pulled a bundle of clean white linen from behind his back and handed it to her. "I hope it is something that a lady would enjoy," he said apologetically. "I tried to ask my cousin for advice, but she is far more interested in swords and horses than in things pertaining to ladies." 

"Why did you not ask your mother?" she asked, pausing in her examination of the package to peer at him quizzically. 

He smiled sadly. "My mother is dead, lady." 

"Oh." Mortified, Lothíriel felt her cheeks flush. "I am sorry. So is mine." 

"Yes, I know," he said kindly, then nodded. "Go ahead. Open it." 

Curiously, she unfolded the linen and found tucked within a smoothly polished comb and brush. "They are lovely," she said appreciatively, and they truly were. Although Lothíriel already had brushes and combs aplenty, something she did not, of course, blurt out to Prince Théodred, she couldn't help but admire the intricate carving on this particular set. "Thank you," she said with a smile. Then she added, as she folded them carefully within the linen once more, "I did not know you had a cousin." 

"I have two cousins," he said. 

"I have two cousins as well," Lothíriel said. "What are they like?" 

"Who? My cousins or yours?" 

Lothíriel giggled. "Yours." 

"They are my very good friends," he said. "Éomer is the older. He will soon be twenty years of age, and he is very strong and serious. His sister Éowyn is about the age of your brother Amrothos, or near enough." 

Lothíriel wrinkled her nose. "Then Amrothos would probably like her very much." 

Théodred burst into jovial laughter. "Perhaps you are right. I am not certain." 

"And she likes to fight with swords?" Lothíriel asked, remembering his previous words. 

He nodded. "I taught her myself, much to my father's dismay at times, I fear." 

At this point, Lothíriel's father had finally escaped his guests long enough to track her down. "Good evening, Lord Théodred," he said, nodding respectfully, then fixed an appraising glance on Lothíriel. "To bed, daughter," he said, his voice heavy with fond warning. "_Now_, please. It is a long day tomorrow, and you have not been feeling well." 

Knowing when she had to admit defeat, Lothíriel gave a long, loud sigh and nodded forlornly. "Yes, father," she said, and rose to her feet. She embraced her father, and bowed respectfully to Théodred. "Good night, Lord Théodred." 

"Goodnight, little songbird." 

Lothíriel smiled and turned to head to her chambers. As she reached the door, she turned back one last time to see her father still talking to the Prince. Their faces were grave and she knew that she was no longer on their minds or in their conversation. They did not look back her way. All the same, she glanced down at the gift still clutched in her tired hand and was content.

* * *

"Éomer King, may I present my daughter Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth." 

Awkward and nervous, Lothíriel sank slowly into a graceful and respectful curtsey, lowering her eyes and trying to gather her courage. She did not know why she should be apprehensive. From the time Théodred had first spoken of his cousin, he'd never had anything but honor, praise, and love to heap upon him. Now all those words—all those memories—were running through her mind as fast as lightning. In some ways, she felt she should know this young man already, yet all she could see as she rose once more was the face of a stranger. 

He took two steps forward, then returned her bow slowly. "It is my honor, lady." 

"As it is mine, Lord Éomer," she said softly. 

"If you will excuse me," said Imrahil, pulling his arm away from Lothíriel's, "I have business with the king." 

Despite herself, Lothíriel couldn't help but smile within. Business with the king, indeed! Part of her desperately wished her father would not leave her, but she knew that ultimately this meeting would be easier without him. She watched him turn and head back indoors, where the assembled host was gathered for another evening of food and song, leaving daughter and king alone beneath clear stars and a bright moon. 

Éomer offered his own arm and she took it, wordlessly. He began to lead her slowly along the balcony, and she gazed dispassionately at the city dropping out below them, not yet comfortable enough to look at him. They walked in silence for a long time, until the sounds of the banquet hall had completely faded behind them. At last, Éomer cleared his throat uncomfortably, and she realized with abrupt surprise that he was as nervous as she. "Your father told you of my offer?" he asked. 

Lothíriel nodded wordlessly. Now she understood why his eyes had searched her out after the coronation. 

"Please understand," he continued, "the choice is yours completely. I know that—" he paused, and his voice was pained. "I know that Théodred would have wished you to be happy. This is all I have to offer you." 

She gave him a faint and sad smile. "Some would say a throne is no small amends," she said. 

"Yet to be queen was not the reward you sought," he said. It was not a question. 

She shook her head slowly. "No." 

He offered no further comment, but released her arm and stood at the railing, gazing past the city to the black mountain wall beyond, his eyes lost in thought and memory. Lothíriel considered him, and felt for the first time the connection of loss which they shared. She sighed heavily, letting the cool night air sooth away some of her agitated nerves. 

"My father speaks very highly of you," she said at last. She did not look at him, but turned followed his gaze to the horizon, though she did not really see it. "I've rarely seen him form so swift a friendship," she added. 

"The battlefield is more honest a test of a man's true character than any other I've seen," he replied. "It would teach us all what we are capable of, the best and the worst." He paused. "I would likewise name your father as one of the best men I have ever known." 

"He wishes me to accept your proposal." 

Éomer turned to look at her in surprise. "Did he say as much to you?" 

She shook her head and gave a small smile. "Not in so many words. But I know him well." 

"And what are your feelings, lady?" 

"I do not know," she said softly. She sighed and looked at him squarely. "The alliance would benefit both our peoples. I cannot pretend I do not know this. As a queen, I know I would serve you well, my Lord, if that is what you seek. But as a wife…" she paused, her brow furrowed. "My Lord, I do not know if my heart will ever love again. I would know what you expect, for I would not see another bound to a life without love." 

He gazed at her with admiration and nodded. "For a king, matters of love are not always simple," he said. "I believe you understand this. I would offer you my friendship and respect, and hold you to no other expectation. I believe I would be content, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth." 

She looked at him sidelong. "You would also desire heirs," she pointed out, a little uncomfortably. A slight flush touched her cheeks and she lowered her eyes. 

His surprise was unmistakable, but he recovered swiftly and cleared his throat again. "Of course," he said, then added awkwardly, "With time." 

Lothíriel pressed her lips together, and her mood fell back to one of pensiveness. He offered her his arm once more and together they headed slowly back to the group, each full of heavy, considering thoughts. Lothíriel was beginning to feel panicked, for she still had no answer for him, and she feared he might expect one immediately. 

To her surprise, Éomer had a solution already on hand. "You needn't make a decision now," he said, when they arrived back at last. He straightened formally to his full height. "Tomorrow I leave with my sister for my homeland. There is much that needs attending to. In a few weeks' time, I will return to bear my uncle's body home to rest with his fathers. Prince Imrahil has kindly agreed to accompany me back for his burial. It would do me great honor if you would come, as well, Lady Lothíriel. Come and see Edoras, meet my people, become acquainted with our ways. Then you might better know whether or not you would find happiness in Rohan." 

Relief spread through Lothíriel like a cool wave. "That is a wise suggestion, my Lord, I thank you. I will attend you at Edoras, and likewise pay my respects to King Théoden." 

"Then I will take my leave," he said, and took her hand, placing a soft kiss upon it. Then he bowed respectfully. "It was a pleasure to meet you." He turned and disappeared into the dusky night, leaving Lothíriel alone with her racing thoughts.

* * *

**Replies:**

**giovanna-scribe**- I'm glad the portrayal of Éomer was to your satisfaction. His thoughts as expressed to Imrahil were one of the initial concepts I had for this story. 

**Eokat**- Her reaction is rather impassive, I think. What do you think of it now you see it? 

**smor**- Always an honor to be the ol' study break. LOL And of _course_ it's sweet of him. ;-) 

**Katya**- I also hate to see Imrahil portrayed like that. It's interesting how people interpret the match between E-L. Was it love or politics? I've always sort of thought it was a little bit of both. 

**Spacepirate**- (hands handkerchief) Hey now, don't cry before there is need! Don't worry. My record of finishing stories is very good. Thank you for all your lovely comments. 

**lsoa**- I was rather fond of that line myself. These LotR men are so poetic. I want one!!! (calms down) Anyway, you're perfectly welcome for the info. 

**fsb567**- Welcome and thank you. Glad to know you're enjoying. :-) 

**Shallindra**- A question I have asked myself many times, my friend, although I consider those things only bonuses to the nobility, bravery, and eloquence. His voice is really cool, too. LOL 

**Caz-Baz**- No, there certainly isn't much to be done about the ages. Tolkien just knew everything about his people. :-P 

**Tracey**- Never fear, you shall have details bit by bit with time. What fun would it be if I divulged everything at once, eh? ;-) Thank you for the very nice review.

* * *

As always, feedback makes me smile quite broadly! 

Saché


	5. To Rohan

**Chapter Five**— _To Rohan _

High summer flourished throughout the lands of Middle Earth, and the world was lush and green and plentiful, as though the very ground itself rejoiced with its habitants. In Rohan, Éomer King worked long and hard to rebuild his war-torn country. Scattered families found their way back to their homes, provision was made for those who had lost loved ones, and the Riders of Rohan exchanged spears for plowshares, hastily planting late crops. In those weeks the king began to fit himself to his new role, and found that with the support and love of his people, it was not as fearful a task as he'd thought it would be. 

Meanwhile, there was much taking place in Minas Tirith to occupy Lothíriel's mind—enough to keep her from dwelling upon the decision that lay before her. Her father was optimistic about the peace King Elessar had made with the Haradrim. Though fledgling, Imrahil ultimately hoped it would lessen the threat of the Corsairs upon Dol Amroth, a plague they'd been dealing with for countless decades. He relayed all this to Lothíriel as the peace talks continued. Many years ago, when Imrahil had finally realized the genuine interest Lothíriel took in the affairs of the world, he'd nurtured it, taking her into his tutelage, negating the need for Lothíriel to hide in trees to learn of such things. 

In the darkening years before the war, however, even these moments between father and daughter had become scarce. Concerns for his people had required the prince to devote increasing energy to affairs of state, and not all of Imrahil's advisors and under-lords had been as patient with the idea of a woman at their side, and she had still been very young. Lothíriel had mourned the increasing loss of her father's companionship. To have it now restored was her greatest joy. 

On Midsummer, Lothíriel stood witness as Lord Aragorn wedded the Lady Arwen Undómiel of Rivendell. Lothíriel watched the new queen with reverence and awe, for she was high and fair, her natural grace and beauty made all the more enchanting by the obvious love and devotion she bore unto the king. Lothíriel tried not to be envious of their happiness. Certainly they had endured many years and countless uncertainties waiting to be together. Lothíriel would never have begrudged them that. But it was difficult. 

Théodred was constantly in her thoughts. It had been three long years since they had parted ways, and she had longed for his presence every moment since that time. Despite the passage of time, she had not forgotten the sound of his voice nor the strength of his embrace. The distance between them when he died, in both miles and in time, had not changed these things, but they did make it harder for her to realize he was really gone. She half-expected him to come riding up to the city gates, as warm and boisterous as ever, kiss away her tears, and tell her it had all been a bad dream. 

But he did not come. Instead, it was Éomer who returned, as promised, many weeks later, to bear away the body of Théoden King. The host at Minas Tirith had been anticipating this event, and so were prepared to journey to Rohan the very next morning. Amidst the hast and ceremony to ready Théoden's bier for travel, Lothíriel did not speak to Éomer beyond a superficial greeting. For this, she was relieved. 

The next morning, Lothíriel rose early, and chose a somber and reserved riding habit of dark blue—a color among her people that signified respect for the dead. She only hoped it would not be too hot, and with that thought in mind, pinned her hair up neatly. When she was finally ready, she joined her father. 

The first part of the journey was silent and solemn—a long, slow walk following the dead king's shrouded form through the winding streets of the White City. Then he was placed upon a special wain prepared for this purpose, and the great host mounted their horses, and the procession finally left the city gates and turned towards Rohan. 

The day was very fine, though warm, as Lothíriel had suspected, and she was soon resolved to wear the blue habit for the first and last days of the journey only, as it would be a slow and lengthy one. To her delight, her cousin Faramir spent the first few hours in the company of Lothíriel and her father. Faramir had, if possible, been even more occupied than Imrahil in the preceding weeks, and she was happy for the opportunity to spend some time with him. 

It wasn't until well past the midday meal that Éomer approached her father's party unexpectedly. He engaged her father and her cousin in earnest conversation for awhile, but Lothíriel found herself strangely reluctant to participate. She listened with polite interest for a long time, before eventually riding ahead a little, taking interest in some of the countryside around her. 

Although she was aware when Éomer finally took his leave of her kinsmen, she did not anticipate his mount to then fall into step beside hers. She looked up, and he gave her a respectful nod of greeting. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded at her horse. "Here is a filly I haven't seen in many years," he said with a smile. 

Despite her surprise at this abrupt and informal greeting, Lothíriel instantly returned the smile knowingly. "Yes, my Lord," she replied. "She has been more than usually good-spirited today. I think perhaps she knows she is going home." 

"What did you decide to call her?" he asked curiously, reaching over to rub the mare's neck affectionately, whereupon she turned her head and nuzzled his hand with enthusiasm, causing him to chuckle. 

"Tilion," Lothíriel replied. 

Éomer looked over at her in surprise. "An interesting choice for a mare," he commented, giving the horse a final pat before resuming his hold on his own reins. 

"I was fifteen," Lothíriel offered with a shrug and a smile. "I declared she looked like the moon, and nothing anyone said could dissuade me." 

"Then it is a fitting name. This lady was sired by Snowmane, my uncle's horse. In a way, I am sure our march means as much to her as it does to myself and my kin. I had wondered if you would bring her." 

"I am surprised you would even remember her." 

"Then that is the first thing you should know about the Rohirrim, my lady. The bloodlines of our horses are remembered as thoroughly as our own. Your Tilion was a favorite of my uncle in her younger years. I always believed he was saddened to see her depart. Perhaps had he known she would ultimately return to Rohan upon your marriage he would have been less so." 

Lothíriel frowned. "You mean he did not know?" she asked, confused. 

"Théodred told the king that he had given her as gift to your father's house, but he made no mention of you," Éomer explained. "Later, after your betrothal, he told no one of that, either, excepting myself and my sister." 

"I wasn't aware," Lothíriel said, almost to herself. For some reason, this information unsettled her greatly. 

Éomer observed her for a moment, and seemed to perceive her mood. "Do not think his concealment was borne from shame," he said reassuringly. "It was for your protection, and the king's as well. I know my uncle would have been proud to welcome you as a daughter." He paused, then added, "When he was in his own mind." 

Understanding suddenly flooded upon her. "The king was very ill," she said, almost to herself, remembering again Théodred's growing worries for his father the last time they'd seen one another. 

"Not ill," Éomer said, and she started at the sudden darkness in his voice. "Bewitched." He caught her gaze and she stared back, eyes wide with amazement. Éomer sighed. "It is a sad and dark tale," he said apologetically. "One I would rather relay to you upon some other occasion." He glanced ahead, to where the banner of Théoden could be seen fluttering lazily in the breeze at the head of the column. "For now, I should return to my _éored_. It was good to speak with you, my lady. I hope the journey will be comfortable for you." 

Every day of the passage thereafter, Éomer took the time to spend at least a few minutes in Lothíriel's company. Although these conversations typically left her feeling awkward, she could not deny the wisdom of his efforts. The whole purpose of her coming, after all, had been to learn more of Rohan and its king. Éomer never addressed the proposal directly. Instead, he sometimes told her histories of Rohan's great kings, or taught her the names of things they passed in his native Rohirric. Occasionally, they spoke of Théodred. Lothíriel knew that to speak of him was prudent and probably useful, but these conversations she found the most uncomfortable of all. 

When they finally passed the border into Rohan itself, Éomer began pointing out various landmarks and telling her of their importance. Lothíriel found the countryside fascinating. It was a wide, wild land of endless grass and wildflowers, hillocks, and occasional copses of trees nestled near lakes and streams. It was easy to see why the bond of horse and rider had grown so strong here. The plains and the free sky were naturally favorable to riding horseback. In Dol Amroth, the terrain was much rockier—craggy foothills extended right up to the shore in places, and horsemen very rarely found themselves venturing beyond the road. 

The company passed through many dozens of villages along the way, where the people would greet them with warm welcome and awe, though more soberly than they might otherwise have done, as they all took time to pay their own respects to Théoden. Lothíriel perceived the devotion they also bestowed upon Éomer, and the easy, relaxed manner in which he interacted with them. She noticed more and more that the people had the look of those on the road to health after a great sickness. Weakened, but no longer frail, careworn but hopeful. 

Dol Amroth had been in many ways quite sheltered during the war. It was not, Lothíriel surmised, that Sauron had overlooked them, but even dark lords had certain priorities, and a remote, coastal city so far out of reach was hardly a place to begin conquest. Rohan, on the other hand, had been pinschered between not one, but two evils, battered and plagued from without and within. The more Lothíriel pondered these things, the more she came to admire the strength of its people, who could emerge from such great darkness so steadfastly. 

Finally, after seventeen days' time, the great procession came within sight of Edoras. Lothíriel looked upon it with great interest. She decided that the Golden Hall sat quite handsomely upon its hill, rugged and strong, so different from the gray towers and spires of her father's castle. 

When they arrived, the company was greeted by a radiant and joyful Lady Éowyn. "Welcome to Edoras, my lords and ladies," she greeted, bowing her head respectfully. Lothíriel decided that Éowyn must have known well the number of guests she was to expect, for she did not seem surprised, although there was an element of amazement in her eyes nonetheless when they fell upon the lady Arwen, followed by Lords Elrond and Celeborn, and the tall and regal Lady Galadriel. Lothíriel could sympathize. Even after so many weeks spent in their company, she herself still felt hesitant among such as great as these. 

Less reserved was Éowyn's greeting for her brother, and also for the small _perian_ called Merry. Before the ladies were escorted away, Lothíriel also noted with astonishment that Éowyn bestowed upon Faramir a look that could hardly be mistaken for anything but adoration. Just as Éowyn turned to usher them through a far doorway, Lothíriel glanced back at her cousin, and fixed him with an amazed and questioning expression. His only return was a satisfied and triumphant smile. But Lothíriel was denied the satisfaction of interrogating him on the matter, being obligated to continue following Éowyn. 

"I apologize, Your Majesty, my lady, for the closeness of the accommodations," Éowyn said nervously to Galadriel and Arwen as they crossed a short hallway. She opened the doorway at the far end and held out a hand, inviting them within. "But I fear the guests are many and Edoras is not so grand as other places." Although she said the words politely, Lothíriel noticed that there was a spark of defensive pride in Éowyn's eyes and in the set of her jaw as she spoke these words, and she glanced at the elven ladies sidelong as they surveyed the room. It was of a reasonable size, but seemed smaller due to the six or seven beds and cots that were arrayed about it. "The ladies must all room together," Éowyn said, continuing in her explanation. 

The Lady Galadriel turned from her study of the chamber to gaze upon Éowyn with kind eyes. Then, to Lothíriel's astonishment, she gave a small bow of respect and homage. "It is indeed our honor, Lady Éowyn, to be made so welcome in your house. To one so valiant and strong we are forever grateful. _Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya._ May the Valar bless you on your path under the sky." 

For many long moments, the White Lady's expression at these words was one of wonder. But then she set herself proudly and smiled, and it became one of peace. Thus Lothíriel arrived in Edoras.

* * *

**Replies:**

**giovanna-scribe**- For some reason, Lothíriel and Imrahil are turning out to have a much, much closer relationship than even I'd envisioned as I write this story. I hope the further exposition upon it in this chapter was to your satisfaction. 

**smor**- Hon, the man shouts _poetry_ in the middle of a battle. Of _course_ he's eloquent. ;-) And yes, you're perfectly welcome to question Lothíriel's sanity at any point during this story… mostly. LOL 

**Black Sheep Alone**- My greatest concern as a writer is believable characters, so your compliment is much appreciated. Thank you. 

**Rachel A. Prongs**- Thanks. I'm rather fond of him myself. :-D 

**Mystikal**- In deciding whether or not to marry Éomer, Lothíriel is taking into consideration what would be expected of her as a queen, something she didn't bother to worry about with Théodred, which is an interesting contrast I'm wondering how much will be explored. Thanks for the review. 

**Katya**- I'm hoping Éomer's hot-bloodedness, as you say, will come out at some point, as well, but for now he is just being very, very careful and considerate towards Lothíriel, so I guess we might not see it until later. As for Théodred memories—I think you'll be at least satisfied by the volume. :-D 

**SpacePirate**- "_ It all happened "off screen"--a good thing as we already know what Eomer has offered and we don't need to hear it again._ Haha. Amen. You didn't want to read it again, and I _really_ didn't want to write it again. I'm also pleased to hear your approval of the transitions between flashbacks and 'realtime.' I'm trying to make them relevant to what is happening in the narrative. In this case, the connection her father draws between Théodred and Éomer, makes Lothíriel think of the first time she ever heard of Éomer, which was, of course, from Théodred himself. But I'm just going to shut up about my authorial quirks now, since I'm probably boring your socks off… LOL. 

**Elegant Couture**- Thanks! I'm rather fond of the flashbacks myself. 

**Lady Anck-su-naumun**- It's always great for meanderings to bear fruit, isn't it? Thank you for your kind words, and I hope you stick aroud! 

**Eokat**- Well, you've got Lothíriel pegged just about right, at least for the moment, I think. Gracias. 

**caz-baz** I really enjoyed and appreciated your feedback. As to length, I can't honestly say. My stories usually all seem to end up more or less similar in length, so my rough guess would be twenty to twenty-five of the chapters as I'm writing them currently. 

**Lirima Tindomiel**- You know, I knew they'd made a movie of the book, but I've never seen it. I presume so. It's a nice story. And thanks for the compliment about language. I've been rereading a lot of the ending of RotK lately, trying to get a feel for it, but even Tolkien's a bit too high and flowery for me to imitate without feeling silly. So I'm doing my best to find a happy medium. I do agree about trying not to insert 21st century 'isms', though.

* * *

**A/N:**- First of all, thanks to my friend **Miana** for helping me dig up some elvish for Galadriel. I really don't know diddly about elvish, so we cheated and snitched a line of Elrond's from some obscure… something. LOL Doubtless one of you, my lovely readers, knows where it's found. 

Middle-Earth factoid of the day: Tilion is the Maia spirit who guides the moon. The reason Éomer was surprised that Lothíriel named her horse that is because Tilion is male and her horse is female. Silly Lothíriel. LOL 

Until next time! 

Saché


	6. Come by the Hills

**Chapter Six** - _Come By the Hills _

That evening there was a banquet in the Golden Hall, festive and boisterous, quite unlike the feasts Lothíriel was accustomed to. There was much mead and song and laughter. Due to the weariness of the road, Lothíriel was more want to observe than to participate, but she remained awake far longer than was her custom, watching and enjoying this strange new place, so unlike what she knew. It was easy to perceive how Théodred had come by his heartiness and jovial nature. 

The funeral was not to take place until the third evening after their arrival. The next morning, Lothíriel was surprised to find herself waking alone in the ladies' appointed chamber, and by the light streaming through the window, she deemed the hour was quite late in the morning. She had just managed to achieve a sitting position when the door came bursting open, admitting the form of a pretty young girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age, wearing a simple gown and bearing a load of linens in her arms. 

"Oh!" the girl cried, staring at Lothíriel in surprise. "You are awake, my Lady," she said, giving a quick curtsey, and rather aimlessly placed her linens on the bed nearest Lothíriel's before turning around. "I must tell the Lady Éowyn," she declared, and as abruptly as she'd come, fled out the door. 

When Éowyn herself arrived a few minutes later, Lothíriel was already adjusting the laces on the side of her over-gown. "Here," said Éowyn, stepping forward, "let me help you with those." Grateful for the assistance, Lothíriel allowed Éowyn to straighten the most stubborn of the ties. "I was beginning to believe you would sleep the day away," Éowyn said as she worked. 

"I did not realize I was so tired," Lothíriel confessed. 

"Now you are rested," Éowyn declared with confidence and a smile, straightening from finishing with Lothíriel's gown, "and you shall be shown around Edoras. Éomer has requested that I look after you while you are here." Her eyes softened. "I know we did not have much chance to become acquainted in Minas Tirith. Perhaps now we might make up for the lost time." 

"I should like that very much, my Lady." 

Éowyn laughed. "Nay, Lothíriel. We should have been cousins. Perhaps we may yet be sisters, but at the very least we shall be friends and equals. Please, call me Éowyn." 

Lothíriel returned this with a smile. "Very well." Then, feeling strangely bold, she peered at the other woman shrewdly. "From what I can tell," she said, "we may yet be cousins. I saw a look upon Faramir's face yestereve that I have never seen upon it before." 

Éowyn's eyes widened and she stared at Lothíriel amazedly for a moment before laughing with delight. Then she took Lothíriel's arm and leaned in to whisper, "Perhaps you are right. But please hold your peace on this matter for a few days' time. Then you shall see." 

It was evident from the start that Éowyn knew every particular of Éomer's proposal to Lothíriel. And though the two ladies became fast and easy friends, Lothíriel noted that Éowyn did not allow this friendship to interfere with her purpose in showing Lothíriel what it would be to become the most important woman in Rohan. 

"Life in the court of Edoras is not as that to which you are accustomed," she said without shame as they walked among the streets below the Golden Hall. Occasionally, she would pause to extend a greeting to one of the village folk, but she kept up her comments to Lothíriel as they walked. "We are a simpler people, closer to the earth. There would be much hardship, but much reward, I think." She glanced over at Lothíriel with an odd, sort of testing expression. "You would have to work very hard," she said. 

Lothíriel smiled a little. "I confess," she said guiltily, "I am not so accustomed to labor as perhaps I should be. I would probably be quite terrible at it," she added with a smile, causing Éowyn to chuckle. Then Lothíriel said thoughtfully, "But I am not afraid to learn." 

"Then that is all you need." 

"There is something I am very curious to know, however." 

"Yes?" 

"How would the people of Rohan react to a foreign queen?" 

Éowyn looked thoughtful for a moment before she replied. "It is nothing new. My grandmother was foreign. I cannot say you would not have the occasional naysayer, but this would be true for any choice of bride Éomer made." She looked sidelong at Lothíriel with small smile. "As a sister, of course, I am very concerned about his _particular_ choice." 

"Naturally," Lothíriel replied, smiling. "I felt the same when my brothers were to wed." She paused in her step to look at the other woman closely. "Do you think I should accept?" she asked at last. 

"You should make whichever choice you believe will make you happy." 

"The happiness I longed for is no longer possible, no matter my choice." 

"Then I do not know how to advise you, except to say… I believe sometimes happiness can be learned." Éowyn smiled again, and her eyes became distant, fixed upon something only she could see. "And sometimes it comes from unexpected places," she added softly. 

The burial of King Théoden three nights later was somber and moving. Lothíriel stood quietly by her father and the other guests, feeling an outsider, but she was nonetheless deeply affected. The dark, haunting harmonies of the Rohirrim singing washed her body with a chill. Though she could not understand the words, she felt strangely connected to them through the spirit of the song. When it was finished, she was surprised to find silent tears running down her cheeks. 

That evening, Éomer drank a cup to his forefathers, and the Rohirrim hailed him as king. Watching him, Lothíriel felt rather small and awed. He stood tall and proud, his eyes alight with fiery determination. She had observed his sorrow during the burial. In fact, she had observed as much of this man as she had been able in the last few days. He seemed strangely old at times. She knew he had seen much, done much, and sacrificed much more than anyone so young should have had to. Had not they all? 

Later, after he announced and blessed the trothplighting of Faramir and a radiant Éowyn, the same eyes were a mixture of pride, joy, and a lingering sadness. His gaze was often upon Éowyn during the evening as she moved about, talking and laughing, and Lothíriel realized that when Éowyn departed for Gondor, he would be utterly without kin in his homeland. She felt a strange stirring of pity for him, as she knew he must be harboring pity for her. Would a marriage born of pity be advisable? 

It wouldn't be just pity, she realized. She respected and admired this young king of Rohan. She could see, as her father had told her, that he would be in need of someone. A helpmeet. The man had been reared in a time of war. He knew very little about peace, and soon he would lose Éowyn. He had never expected to have to rule a country. 

Lothíriel knew she could help him. She could be of use here. It would give her life focus and meaning and challenge. This country, this people, was strong and admirable. She loved Dol Amroth—her father, her family, the waves washing the beach and crashing on the rocks, but in the arms of a prince a small piece of her heart had been somehow tied to Rohan. Now, with a power she couldn't rightly explain, it was pulling at her. 

In her heart, Lothíriel's decision was made long before she'd expected it to be, but it was still several days before she advised her father. 

* * *

Over the next few days, Edoras became significantly less crowded as, one by one, the parties of guests began going their various ways. The elves and the hobbits continued on to the west, and Aragorn traveled with them. Though Éomer was grieved to see his friends depart, a small part of him was relieved that his house would become reasonably manageable once again. He had been honored and heartwarmed by how many had come to pay homage to Théoden King, but from a practical position, Edoras had never been intended to host so many. If it hadn't been for Éowyn, he wasn't sure how he would have managed.

Aragorn, at least, would be returning. Queen Arwen had remained behind to wait for him, as had Prince Imrahil and his daughter. For this, Éomer was pleased, for he had greatly regretted his inability to attend the lady as he ought, and hoped to remedy the situation over the next few days. 

Since he had met her, Éomer's thoughts had often dwelt upon Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. She remained to him a mystery, for though they had conversed often on the journey to Rohan, he felt as though he looked upon her in a mirror or through a window—the view was clear, but impeded. She was polite, but distant. Kind, but reserved. She did not shy away from his attentions, but her feelings about them still seemed ambivalent. Still, from what glimpses of her he was able to see amidst her self-drawn shroud he was rapidly coming to esteem. 

That she was fair there could be little argument. Her hair was as dark as midnight, her eyes large and grey as a stormy sea. There was a grace to her movements that could not help but captivate. She was soft-spoken and observant, and Éomer quickly perceived why Théodred had named her wise. Yet Théodred had said other things as well. He had spoken of lightheartedness and laughter, and Éomer could not help but sense these things were still within her, buried in a tomb of grief and duty and acquiescence. It was as though she had been locked within a self-imposed cage, and he found himself wishing she could be free again. He found himself wishing he could help her. 

These things he might have confided to Éowyn, but was reluctant to intrude upon her time with Lord Faramir, who would not remain in Edoras for much longer, as his own duties in Gondor could not forever be neglected. Faramir would return to Minas Tirith with the king and queen, and he and Éowyn were eager to spend as much time as possible in one another's company, particularly now that their betrothal was no longer a matter of secrecy. 

Éowyn's joy brought Éomer much gladness. For so many years she had been flailing—lost and despairing—and though he had done his best, he had not been able to help her. The ease with which Lord Faramir had seemingly done so caused Éomer a small amount of resentment, but his feelings of relief and gratitude were far greater, so this childish notion was easily dismissed. It was this part of him, however, that secretly welcomed Faramir's imminent departure, so that he could have Éowyn to himself for the rest of her time in Rohan. Already plans were in place for a wedding in early spring of the following year. To Éomer, the time seemed too short. 

The evening after Aragorn and the others had departed, Éomer found himself strangely sad and pensive. He was mostly quiet at supper. Éowyn and Faramir sat on one side of him, talking earnestly together in quiet, pleased voices. Arwen Evenstar sat on the other, but to Éomer's relief, Imrahil took it upon himself to see that she was attended to. Occasionally, as protocol demanded, Éomer would participate in their discussion, but was mostly content to listen. His thoughts rested upon the bridge between the past and the future, and he was not much inclined to conversation. 

At length, his gaze fell upon Lothíriel, sitting serenely on the other side of her father, and a thought struck him. "My Lady Lothíriel," he asked, drawing the surprised gaze of the others at the table, including that of the lady herself, "would you favor us with a song? I was told from the closest of sources that your voice is quite unparalleled in your father's court." 

Lothíriel turned to her father with a reproachful expression. "My father is too excessive in his compliments, Lord King," she said, her eyes still on Imrahil. 

Éomer chuckled. "Nay, lady. It was not from your father I heard this report." Théodred had many times spoken of his 'songbird' when he'd last returned from Dol Amroth. 

Something in Lothíriel's eyes seemed to soften when she realized his meaning, and she nodded. "Yea, my Lord. If that is your wish." 

"But she has no harp," Faramir noted. Éomer frowned. This he had not considered. But it was no matter. The minstrels could easily provide accompaniment. 

Beside him, Éowyn stood up with a smile. "Nay," she said. "Not of her people, perhaps." To Éomer's astonishment, she stepped down from the dais and went to the minstrels, gesturing knowingly to one of them to relinquish his instrument. He was quick to give her, though he seemed mystified. Éowyn then walked with confidence to Lothíriel's place and handed it to her. "But she may play upon a harp of the Rohirrim, as I believe she knows how," she said with a smile. 

Lothíriel's smile was warm and genuine as she accepted. "Thank you, my lady," she said. She looked at the instrument thoughtfully for a moment and gave it a few experimental strums before looking back to Éomer. "What manner of song would it please you to hear, my Lord?" she asked. 

"Sing a song of Dol Amroth," Éowyn said brightly as she resumed her place. 

"A song of peace," Éomer said at the same moment. He looked over at his sister and they exchanged amused expressions, causing the company to laugh. He opened his mouth, ready to concede to Éowyn's suggestion, but to his surprise, Lothíriel spoke first. 

"I believe I have a song which would answer both requests," she said, considering. She looked at her father. "It was a favorite of Idlawen, my lady mother," she added with a soft smile, which Imrahil returned fondly. 

The hall quieted, and Lothíriel strummed the instrument in trial for a few moments before her fingers began moving upon the strings with confidence, and her voice rang out clear and strong. 

_Come by the hills to the land  
Where fancy is free.  
Stand where the peaks meet the sky  
And the rocks reach the sea.  
Where the rivers run clear  
And the bracken is gold in the sun.  
And cares of tomorrow must wait  
Till this day is done. _

Come by the hills to the land  
Where life is a song  
And sing while the birds fill the air  
With their joy all day long.  
Where the trees sway in time,  
And even the wind sings in tune.  
And cares of tomorrow must wait  
Till this day is done. 

Come by the hills to the land  
Where legend remains  
Where stories of old stir the heart  
And may yet come again.  
Where the past has been lost  
And the future is still to be won.  
And cares of tomorrow must wait  
Till this day is done. 

Come by the hills to the land  
Were fancy is free.  
Stand where the peaks meet the sky  
And the rocks reach the sea.  
Where the rivers run clear  
And the bracken is gold in the sun.  
And cares of tomorrow must wait  
Till this day is done. 

The song was not a long one, but from its first strains, it had instantly filled Éomer's heart with a sense of simple peace and hope, soothing his apprehensions. This was not merely due to the words and the lyrical melody, but the love and sincerity upon the countenance of the singer. She seemed to be far away as she sang, lost in memory and love, but for one small moment her cage was left unguarded, and Éomer felt as though he truly saw her for the first time. In that moment, he began to understand how Théodred had come to love her. 

When the song was finished, Lothíriel returned the harp to its master amidst an enthusiastic round of compliments and entreaties to sing again, which she graciously refused. Éomer took the opportunity to lean aside to Éowyn. "How did you know she could play a harp of Rohan?" he asked quietly. 

Éowyn gave a satisfied smile. "You are not the only one in whom Théodred confided, brother," she said. "If I am not mistaken, there sits even now in Imrahil's halls a harp that once belonged to Théolas." 

"Indeed?" Éomer replied, intrigued. It was not surprising that Théodred would have chosen such a keepsake to bequest upon his beloved. Théolas had been the sister of Théoden and Théodwyn, Éomer's mother, but she had died young from illness and was little spoken of. Éomer knew little of her, for his mother had been only a child when her sister had died. Her harp had no doubt lain idle for many years, unattended and forgotten. No doubt Théodred had decided it would have a better life in the hands of his songbird. 

As the evening waned to a close, the company finally began to dissipate. Éomer took the opportunity to approach Lothíriel, who was in a serious conversation with her father. He was reluctant to intrude, but Imrahil noticed his approach and said something privately to Lothíriel, who glanced at Éomer, nodded, and murmured a reply before they both turned to face him. 

"My lady," Éomer began, bowing slightly. "I do not believe I had the chance to thank you for your song amidst all the other offerings. It was highly pleasurable. I hope you will favor us with another performance some time again before your departure." 

"It was my honor, Lord King." 

"And how are you enjoying your stay in Edoras?" 

"Very well, my Lord. Your land is beautiful, and your people very worthy of respect." 

Éomer could not help but feel frustrated. She was behaving as formally as ever. 

"With your permission, Éomer," said Imrahil, glancing between the two of them knowingly, "I have some things I wish to discuss with my nephew." He turned and gave Lothíriel a kiss on her forehead, and a reassuring squeeze on her upper arm. "Goodnight, daughter." 

"Goodnight." 

"Goodnight, Imrahil," Éomer nodded to him as he departed. 

There was a moment's awkward silence, and Éomer struggled for something appropriate to say. The situation between himself and this lady was certainly a peculiar one. "I apologize for my distraction these past few days," he said at last. "I hope Éowyn has made you sufficiently comfortable." 

She smiled kindly. "Yes. She has been most accommodating. And you need not feel a burden on my account, my Lord. You have been much occupied with matters of precedent." 

"Even so, my invitation to you was of a particular nature. I would not see you neglected or overlooked." 

She lowered her eyes, and her expression was difficult to read. "If it please you, my Lord," she said after a moment, lifting her face to look at him again, "I would request a private audience with you tomorrow, at your earliest convenience." She glanced around the room and its occupants, as if stressing the need for privacy. 

Something within him jumped a little at these words. She must have made her decision, he realized. What else could it be? He resisted the urge to ask her outright, then and there, though he was intensely curious. More surprising was his strong desire that her answer would be yes. Instead he nodded. "Certainly, lady. Feel free to attend me at any time you wish." 

To his relief, the interview was not delayed the following morning. Éomer awoke early, his mind too full to easily sleep, and he'd spent the quiet, early hours attending to a few trivial household matters that had been neglected since his return from Minas Tirith. So it was that Lothíriel and Imrahil awaited upon him, before most of the others were even awake. Éomer dismissed his servants, and they were alone. 

Imrahil positioned himself unobtrusively to the side as Lothíriel came to stand before Éomer, curtseying low. He rose from his seat to greet her, returned the bow, and remained standing as she straightened. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, her eyes seeking his with confidence. "My Lord Éomer," she said, "I have decided to accept your suit of marriage." A strange sort of relief filled him at her declaration. Then she continued, with a slight amount more of hesitation, "I have only one request to ask of you." 

"And what might that be?" 

"A year's time, my Lord," she said quietly. "To be with my family, and to honor Théodred and my fallen countrymen with a time of mourning." 

He nodded appreciatively. "Then you shall have it." 

She exhaled, seemingly relieved. "Thank you, my Lord." She turned back to her father. 

Imrahil approached with a contended smile, and bowed low before Éomer. "It is my honor, Lord Éomer, to bestow upon you my daughter's hand. I know she will be greatly cared for. This shall be a blessed alliance between our two lands." 

Lothíriel now turned back to Éomer, her expression more relaxed. "In what manner are Rohirrim brides wed, my Lord?" 

"It is the custom that the bride be trothplighted in her old home and wed in her new," he replied, remembering Éowyn's trothplighting of only two days before. 

Lothíriel considered these words. "Then so it shall be for me," she said with confidence. "If it please you to wait upon me in my homeland, of course," she added. 

"Of course," Éomer confirmed. "In a year's time." 

* * *

**Replies: **

**Eokat**- The appendices, various passages of RotK, websites that have compiled information from other sources… LOL. If only research for school had been so interesting. You are probably right about Lothíriel. 

**Angel of the Night Watchers**- I'm afraid my desire to research does not extend to learning some Rohirric, but thank you for the suggestion! As for updating regularly, I only hope the momentum continues as it has been. 

**smor** - I think I stole the 'spears to plowshares' bit from the Bible and tweaked it… well, I stole it from somewhere, anyway. It was swords to plowshares. LOL Incidentally, 'Middle Earth Slumber Party' sounds like the title of a humor or parody fic. You should write it. ;-) 

**lsoa**- You didn't forget to respond! I just overlooked you in the replies. So sorry! 

Chapter 4: I'd hoped the flashbacks would provide a measure of levity, and I'm glad to see it has succeeded. 

Chapter 5: Delighted beyond all measure that you're enjoying my interpretation of Lothíriel. I know she's pretty different from other versions. 

**kati58** - Thank you! 

**Tracey**- I am most sorry that you couldn't manage to review before. You should congratulate yourself, btw. Thanks to your desire to hear from Éomer again, he became insistent that the acceptance of the proposal be told from his point of view. I hadn't planned it that way ;-) Also, your comments about Éowyn are reassuring. I have been concerned I was writing her too brightly, but then I inevitably remember that at this point she is both healed and in love, so… LOL 

**Katya** - Thanks! Considering who Lothíriel was riding beside, I'm guessing this was very good for you, hmmn? ;-) 

**Spacepirate** - As always, an intensely gratifying (and fun) review! I'm particularly glad you enjoyed the 'trek,' as you say. I was pretty satisfied with those passages. And who doesn't enjoy É/F 'schmoopiness'? Hehe 

**Shallindra** - Yes… handsome… (glances askance at Éomer poster on closet door) Hehehehe. 

**Rachel A. Prongs** - Hmmn. Well, I highly doubt Gimli found Éomer very sweet and loveable upon their first meeting, but I think I catch your drift. LOL I suppose Rohan wasn't directly caught between Isenguard and Mordor, as there was still Gondor in the middle, too, but Rohan certainly felt the effects of both. I think this is something the TTT movie did a good job of bringing out. Alas, there was not really an appropriate place to include Lothíriel's interrogation of Faramir. I hope her query to Éowyn was enough to satisfy you. 

**Terreis** - (big grin) Welcome! As you say, when someone reviews every chapter, they deserve due response. I always loved the book, too, and actually just picked up a copy at the library yesterday. Since I've been thinking about it so much, I decided to reread. LOL Yes, the A-A age gap has been most reassuring since it occurred to me. Éomer is rather wonderful, isn't he? We all know it's only a matter of time for Lothíriel. She cannot possibly be stoic against that forever. Mwuahaha. As for Lothíriel's lack of devotion to É/F… I hope I did not disappoint too many. She's very happy for them… just a bit preoccupied. ;-) 

* * *

**A/N:** There are several this time.

As a musician, LotR just isn't LotR to me without intermittent songs, so here I found a place to insert one for my story. However, I am neither songwriter nor lyricist, so… I borrowed one. (adjusts halo) **Come by the Hills** is a traditional folksong as featured on Loreena McKennit's very first album, _Elemental_. If you're ever interested in some good, LotR-type folk music, I highly recommend… well, just about her entire body of work, actually. Ms. McKennit is quite a talented harpist, herself, and that particular album has a very maritime feel. I have drawn much of my inspiration for Lothíriel from it. 

For my own purposes, I've kind of imagined the culture of Dol Amroth as having loosely Irish influences, so I always pictured their famous harpers as playing something the size of an Irish harp. The harp Lothíriel played in this chapter, however, is much more like a lyre. Please, nobody go on an in-depth search for where I gleaned these distinctions, because I totally invented them. 

Lastly, it says… somewhere (can't remember where offhand) that Théoden had other sisters besides Théodwyn, but nothing is divulged about their names or fates. So I made one up 

This chapter was unbelievably difficult to write. You may all simultaneously blame and thank **Melyanna** who refused to humor me into thinking my first attempts were okay, and thereby forced me (as a matter of pride) to do several rewrites until I finally came up with something (I hope) worthwhile. I actually trashed an entire scene which proved to be both extraneous and tedious. Can you believe that? 

Your exhausted author, 

Saché


	7. Past and Future

**Chapter Seven** – _Past and Future _

_Year 3014 of the Third Age _

The sound of pounding hooves thundered along the shoreline, muffled in the sand, causing salt-spray to fly in the wake of two riders speeding along the coast. The smell of brine filled Lothíriel's nostrils, and she knew that when she got back home, she'd have a time of it getting the sand out of her hair. 

Of course, if she wasn't riding _behind_ Théodred's horse, this wouldn't have been a problem. He had the advantage of being familiar with his mount. Of course, he was a Rider of Rohan, which probably was advantage enough, but Lothíriel was not without her own strategy. She smiled as she spied the series of rock edifices ahead, scattered sporadically across the beach, some extending partially into the sea. Sure enough, when he spied them, Théodred's pulled his stallion back slightly, and Lothíriel's smile widened to one of triumph. Rather than slowing, she urged her own mount faster, looking back and laughing as she passed him. 

Lothíriel knew every nook and turn of these and other rocks formations along the coastline below her father's city. She did not hesitate in using this knowledge to gain a considerable lead on her opponent. By the time he emerged on the other side, where another expanse of clear beach extended into the distance, she was already stopped and awaiting him. 

"You see," she said breathlessly when he pulled up beside her, "there is no better place to race, I am certain." She reached out and patted her mare affectionately, which was one of the Rohan horses Théodred had brought for her father's perusal. 

"You, my lady, have not seen as much of this world as I, so I might argue the point," he said, chuckling. He looked around at the setting with admiration. "It is very fine, though, I confess," he added, nodding enthusiastically. "Very fine." He twisted around and squinted back through the craggy rocks at the small cluster of distant figures methodically approaching. "Perhaps we should start back to your father so that he does not have to come so far to fetch us." 

"Very well, my Lord," she said, turning the horse and assuming a much more leisurely pace than that they had just abandoned. 

"I suspect you knew of your advantage in this contest before we began, did you not, Lothíriel?" 

Lothíriel gave a satisfied smile and looked at him sidelong. "Perhaps," she confessed. She set her chin primly and smiled. "But it would not have made much of a difference, had I told you. You would still have had to exercise caution in your ignorance." 

"Yes, but you chose the grounds," he pointed out. 

Lothíriel gave a very innocent look. "It was no more than the stretch of beach that happened before us at the moment, my Lord," she replied. 

"It was you who suggested racing." 

She blushed a little. "I am discovered," she said, laughing. 

"I must confess," he said, "I did not expect little Lothíriel to suggest so reckless a thing as a horserace." 

"Belfarion says the sea air does strange things to a person," Lothíriel said simply, smiling knowingly. She gazed thoughtfully out at the blue and grey expanse of churning water to the south. "It is said by some that in our ancient history, the house of Dol Amroth was descended from the elves. My mother used to say the sea would turn me wild when I was little," she added with a laugh. "I used to spend hours out here playing." 

"And what is the conclusion I am to draw from these varying observations, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth?" Théodred asked, musing. 

"I am not certain," she confessed with lighthearted shrug. "Perhaps that we can all be a little bit reckless, given the right circumstances." 

"Well, reckless or no, your are an accomplished rider, my Lady. You have a fine seat." 

"Coming from a Prince of Rohan, I shall count that as high praise indeed," she grinned back. 

The past few years had brought many changes to Lothíriel. Though traces of girlish gawkiness still lingered, at fifteen she was easily as lovely as her mother had been, and already Imrahil had received petitions for her hand. Lothíriel was relieved that he considered her much too young for marriage at this age. Though she had begun to realize that there were other interesting young men in the world besides her brothers, the thought of marriage was quite frightening. 

When Théodred had his men had come for trade, he had behaved as friendly towards her as he ever had in their six-year acquaintance. What surprised Lothíriel was the unexpected change in her perception of him. She had certainly never stopped to realize how handsome he was, quite different from her own countrymen. Wilder, more rugged, strong and untamed. 

Lothíriel blushed, partially ashamed of this train of thought. She was only fifteen years old. Théodred would no doubt consider her a child. He was so many years her senior that perhaps he always would, but she could not help but enjoy the way he spoke with her as equal, with respect and earnestness. True, he had always done so, even when she was small, but having spent more time with men outside her family sphere lately, Lothíriel had come to realize this was the exception rather than the rule. 

"What tidings do you bring us from the world at large?" Lothíriel asked him now, curious. 

"Are you yet required to climb trees to learn these things?" he asked speculatively, laughing. "Or interrogate hapless visitors when you get them alone?" 

She smiled. "Nay," she replied. "My father would acquaint me if I asked him, though I know it troubles him to do so." 

"Because you are a daughter?" he asked. 

She considered. "No," she concluded. "I believe it is more because I am so young. I believe he wishes he could protect me, but with my continued persuasion, that has begun to change." 

"In Rohan we do not believe that ignorance necessarily equates protection," Théodred remarked. He sighed. "At least not in matters such as these." He paused and looked at her uncertainly. "You are sure your father would not be angry with me if I told you?" 

Lothíriel eyed him and gave a small smile. "I confess, he might be a little displeased, but it would be with me, not with you." She set her jaw. "I have heard dark whispers, my Lord Prince. Believe me when I say that a danger named and defined can be no less frightening that vague rumors festering in and among gossip mongers." 

Théodred peered at her for a long time, as if seeing her somehow differently. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I agree, my Lady." He was quiet another moment, then said, "I fear that the tidings now being spread among the people of Rohan and Gondor are unsettling and mysterious. There is new life and activity in the Black Land, greater than any time in the living memory of man. True, the Stewards have defended Gondor's borders for many centuries, but there must be some threat beyond our reckoning brewing there to account for such an increase of orcs and assaults upon the borders." He looked grave and troubled, and cast his gaze to the northeast. Unconsciously, Lothíriel's eyes followed. She was unsure what to say. 

"Thank you for telling me," she said at last. 

"I fear I did you no favor," he said regretfully. 

"It _is_ unsettling," she agreed. "But I feel better knowing how things stand." 

By now they had finally reached a middle ground with the other riders approaching—Prince Imrahil, Elphir and Adlóriel, Amrothos, and a small pony bearing Lothíriel's young niece, Ildaien. "And how do the steeds of Rohan take to the shore?" Imrahil called with a smile when they were near enough. 

"Very well, my Lord!" Théodred called back, dissipating the pensive mood that had settled around him and Lothíriel with his own engaging smile. "A fine terrain. Particularly to those who know it well," he added, looking at Lothíriel in mild reproof. She blushed, but a small smile escaped her lips. 

"I am most eager to begin trade upon our return to the castle," Imrahil continued, pulling the horse he rode alongside Théodred's. "I should not be surprised if I can find the means to take them all off of your hands. We have great need of good breeding stock in our own cavalry, such as it is." 

"I am sure that would please my father greatly, Lord Prince, but only if the price is right," Théodred said jovially, causing everyone to laugh. Then, looking thoughtful, he added, "But I should like to make a gift of this mare to Princess Lothíriel." He nodded at the fine white horse she rode. "In honor of many years of friendship. So fair a mount becomes the lady of the house." 

Lothíriel stared at him, wide-eyed, then looked down amazedly at the horse she was riding. "My Lord, I don't know what to say," she stammered. 

"An acceptance would do nicely." 

To her horror, she blushed again, but managed to bow her head gracefully. "It is my honor, Lord Prince."

* * *

Lothíriel had not indulged in a barefoot walk on the beach for many years, but now she ambled lazily along the waterline, lost in thought. Occasionally, a hefty wave or two would strike with extra vehemence and splash her calves. The bottom of her skirts were soaked with sand and salt but she paid it no mind.

A year's time had done little to ease her longing for Théodred. She had come here today, to this spot where so long ago he had captured her fancy, to say goodbye to the sea and to try and say goodbye to him. She already knew the latter endeavor would be unsuccessful. 

Tilion pawed playfully in the sand a few feet away, content to run and canter at her leisure. Sometimes the mare would venture to higher ground for what scant grazing was available down here, but more often than not she would run, returning occasionally to Lothíriel for a friendly nuzzle or a piece of sugar. 

The sound of hoof beats from the other direction caused Lothíriel to turn, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sunshine. It was midsummer, and very warm. This had always been her favorite time of year, especially on the beach. The air was lazy and sleepy, making her feel relaxed and content. Most of the time. She would miss it here. 

Once the rider was within earshot, Lothíriel called, "You shouldn't be out riding very much, and especially not this time of day," she continued scolding as the rider dismounted. Lothíriel reached up to help her down. 

"Nonsense," Falmaien said brightly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm not made of spun sugar, after all, and the little one has hardly become a burden just yet." 

Lothíriel eyed her sister's softly swelling belly with longing. "I wish I could be here for the child's birth," she said sadly. 

Falmaien took her horse's reins in her right hand, and Lothíriel's arm in her left. Slowly, the two women began walking back towards the castle. "That would be lovely," she agreed, "but you know as well as I that by the time he is born it will be much to close to winter to begin a journey. I am certain we will relay news of the birth as speedily as we can to Rohan, if the snows are not too plentiful." 

Lothíriel did not voice her private fear, that something might go wrong and she would not be here for her beloved sister. Her fear was unfounded, though. Falmaien came from a family of strong women, who had very little history of trouble. Still, Rohan was so very far away. 

"I came to find out what it is that has captivated you out here all afternoon," Falmaien said. "I believe Prince Imrahil is concerned." 

Lothíriel was long in replying, trying to put into words the conflicting feelings that were racing around inside her. She did not bother trying to deny anything was wrong, for both of her sisters knew her moods very well. "I am a little bit sad and frightened, I suppose," Lothíriel confessed. The wedding entourage was expected from Rohan tomorrow, perhaps the day after. Her year was up. Now it was time to move to a different chapter of her life. 

"Not frightened of Lord Éomer, I trust?" Falmaien said, looking at her in concern. 

Lothíriel shook her head. "Nay, Éomer is a good man. He will be a good husband." 

"And a good father, I believe," Falmaien added. 

Lothíriel did not reply. Her heart was troubled. It was not that she did not wish for children – quite the opposite, in fact, but the closer the wedding came the more she became uncomfortable with the thought of how children must come to be. "I do not love him, Falmaien," she whispered. The thought of bedding with a man she did not love made her feel… unclean, somehow. "I know he is aware of this, and I know I agreed to this marriage on completely honest grounds, but I feel like I have woven us both into a trap, somehow. I thought maybe with a year apart I could learn to forget Théodred, but I'm afraid I still love him deeply. How is that fair to the man I am going to marry?" 

"Can you not change your mind?" 

Lothíriel sighed. "I have considered it. I do not think Lord Éomer would hold me to my word in this case, but it would not be honorable. Besides," she added, "I am only wasting away here. Adlóriel is already taking over my role in the household in anticipation of my departure, and it suits her so well I do not wish to disrupt things. Anyway, there are aspects I am looking forward to." 

"Such as?" 

"Making myself useful to Éomer's people. Learning about them. It has been so long since father and I were in Rohan that sometimes I have to stop and remind myself how much I enjoyed it in light of all these uncertainties." She offered a weak smile. 

Falmaien took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "I wish I could accompany you for the wedding," she said. Due to Falmaien's condition, she and Erchirion were the only members of the family who would not be joining them on the long trek back to Lothíriel's new home. "That is another reason I wanted to chase you down here, delicate condition or no." She laughed. "Soon your king will come to fetch you, and I shall not have a moment alone with you ever again. Everyone else will have weeks on the journey, but I will not." 

Lothíriel paused in her steps and turned to give her sister a full and tight embrace. "I will miss you deeply," she said, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. 

Their moment of comfort and solace was interrupted by sudden, loud, and enthusiastic barking. Falmaien pulled away and looked around. "I wondered when that creature was going to turn up," she said, laughing. 

Lothíriel smiled. "I was wondering where she'd _gotten_ to," she said, then called loudly, "Froilas!" 

At the sound of her name, the lean brown hound that had been barking at something indiscernible in the sand turned her head and began scampering eagerly towards the two women, her long ears flopping comically with each stride. She did not stop barking, and when she reached them, Lothíriel had to position herself in front of Falmaien to keep the dog from jumping all over the other woman in her haste. "Down," Lothíriel commanded, pointing sternly at the ground. She had to repeat the command twice before the dog obeyed. All the while, Falmaien laughed heartily. 

"I do hope that not all the hounds of Edoras are as this one, Lothíriel," she finally said. "Or you will never get a moment's peace." 

Lothíriel crouched down and began scratching around Froilas's head and ears, smiling. "She will no doubt be an outcast among her brothers and sisters," she agreed. "She has not learned to do anything useful since the day she was born." 

The dog had been given to Lothíriel just before her departure from Rohan, as a betrothal gift from Éomer. "A traditional gift is a horse," he'd confessed, "but as you already possess a fine mare in your Tilion, I thought this might serve just as well." Apparently, Éowyn had told her brother how much Lothíriel had cooed and exclaimed over the freshly-weaned litter in her tour of the Golden Hall's barns and stables, and had thought the gift of a pup was one that Lothíriel might be receptive to. 

Éowyn's instinct had been sound. When Lothíriel had accepted the creature—at the time deceptively subdued in sweet sleep—she had smiled at her future husband with a smile that, for the first time, was not steeped in polite formality. Lothíriel was grateful for her gangly, playful little friend, for Froilas reminded her that perhaps it wouldn't be difficult to be friends with the King of Rohan, in time. It was another means by which she boosted herself on days like today when doubt and sorrow were stronger than she could bear alone. 

Froilas was panting satisfactorily as Lothíriel resumed a standing position. Then she whistled loudly between her thumb and forefinger—a trick Amrothos had taught her when she was seven—and a moment later Tilion came trotting lightly in their direction. "Well," she said staunchly to Falmaien after she helped the other woman carefully back onto her own horse, "It is time for courage, I suppose. Tomorrow Éomer will come for the trothplighting, and a week later I shall take my Rohan horse and my Rohan dog and accompany him home." 

That evening, they had a quiet, merry banquet, with just the members of the family, which was just as Lothíriel would have chosen it. It was a memory she would treasure fondly in the future, whatever it might hold for good or ill.

* * *

**Replies:**

**Katya**- Your question about Lothíriel's knowledge regarding Rohirrim marriage traditions was a valid one, and I had have to confess you made me have to stop and think about it. I guess I'll just have to say that since she and Théodred never got far as making concrete wedding _plans_, Lothíriel never really thought to ask. Yes, it's a flimsy excuse, but the best I can do. LOL Thanks for your critique! 

**lsoa**- I hope you enjoyed this flashback, and there will be more, though I still kind of have to plan out the details of them. As for the trothplighting vs. wedding thing… I thank you for your concern, but I must respectfully disagree. Tolkien quite clearly places the year of their wedding as 3020. I believe it is either in one of the War of the Ring books or in his letters. I obtained the information from 

**Kyae**- It is a very beautiful song, and very optimistic. I highly recommend hearing it sometime if you can. A clip of it may be heard at Loreena McKennit's website, also the official website for Quinlan Roads studio. 

**Spacepirate**- Ugh. I've been the worm-infested route myself. Not fun. I have to confess that I was pretty excited myself when Éowyn came up with that particular bit of dialogue. I'm glad you brought it up. It's one of my favorites, too. 

**smor**- You _should_ like that particular reaction of Éomer's, as it was a subtle tip-o-the-hat to your story. I thought your idea a good one, and I borrowed the theme a little, but not to such a strong degree, as my Éomer is not quite the same. Er…. Thanks, btw. (cough) :-D 

**Lomentari**- Thank you! We all strive for originality. :-) 

**Frigg**- Whoops. Yes, thank you for pointing that out. (watches all credibility as a detail-oriented author go tumbling down the drain). You're quite right. As you'll note if you look at the chapter _now_, I have corrected the mistake. Also, thank you for your compliments. 

**Tracey**- Hmmn… maybe there was a plague of some kind in Rohan? Other than something so obvious and catastrophic, I guess maybe it's just because without modern medical conveniences, a lot of people die young in these kinds of settings? LOL- it's funny you should mention your relief at Lothíriel's acceptance. I had so many ideas for material in this particular stretch of story that I could have possibly stretched it over three chapters instead of two. The reason that I forced myself to keep it moving, though, is because the story is not about Lothíriel agreeing to marry him, really. It's about the growth she goes through afterward. Hence, the chapter ending to your satisfaction. 

**Eokat**- Well, if I had big long Middle-Earth sleeves such as Arwen's or Éowyn's, maybe quite a bit, eh? All shall unfold in time, I assure you.

* * *

**A/N:** Although I plan to continue writing, I must warn you that updates will be a little less frequent in the upcoming couple of months, due to the holiday season. I'm also helping out with a new play at my local theater, and for anyone who's ever done theater, you'll know it's a LOT of work and hours. But very, _very_ fun. I highly recommend getting involved in your own local group somehow, if you can.

Until next time! 

Saché


	8. Distance

**Chapter Eight** - _Distance_

Four weeks after his wedding, Éomer was called away from Edoras at the request of one of his Marshals to address a land dispute in Snowbourne that seemed to require no less than the attention of the king himself. After his arrival, it did not take Éomer long to realize the pettiness of the matter, and that it should not have been his responsibility. Not that he was insensitive to the day-to-day problems of his subjects, of course, but there was a reason kings were given the privilege of delegating authority. He simply did not have time to tend to every small problem by himself. He was going to have to put his foot down about his subordinates handling such things in the future. This could not become a habit.

Still, it hadn't really taken that long to smooth the ruffled feathers on both sides. After only two days he was headed back to Medueselde. The journey was not overly long or taxing, giving him much time to ponder on the new and strange state of affairs at home.

The wedding had not, perhaps, been as idyllic as many in the kingdom would have wished. This had nothing to do with the eagerness of the people or the willingness of the bride and groom, despite the formality of the union. Rather, the bride had fallen unfortunately ill the day before the wedding with an unfortunate stomach malady. Éomer's physicians attributed it to something poor she'd mistakenly eaten in the preceding days, likely on the road from Gondor. Aragorn himself attended her, and assured both Éomer and an anxious Prince Imrahil that, though she would have to put up with several days' discomfort, she would not endure any long-term effects.

Poor Lothíriel was bedridden for nearly four days. Her family only suffered her to emerge long enough for a hasty wedding ceremony on the appointed day, before she was spirited away again to endure the rest of the illness. Éomer was immensely grateful that both Éowyn and Imrahil's daughters-in-law had been there to attend her, for he certainly would not have known what to do.

The court of Edoras did its best to celebrate the event, despite the indisposition of the bride. Some had argued that perhaps they should have delayed the ceremony, but as it had been for Théoden's funeral, there were simply too many guests crowding the Golden Hall to be able to host for more than a few days' time. Mercifully, Aragorn and the Queen departed back for Minas Tirith the following day, and Imrahil remained only long enough to ensure his daughter was indeed regaining her strength. Then he'd taken the rest of his family back home, leaving the people of Edoras to adjust to the new state of affairs rather abruptly.

Éomer raised a hand to greet the sentries as he passed through the gates of Edoras. It was good to be home, despite the brevity of his journey. As he approached the Golden Hall, he could see Éothain hastily descending the front stairs out of the corner of his eye. He offered another wave, even has he expertly guided Firefoot toward the stables. By the time his friend caught up, Éomer was had already relieved Firefoot of the saddle and was just beginning a thorough rubdown of the horse's back with a well-worn currycomb.

"Greetings, my Lord King. I am glad to see you returned safely."

"Greetings, Éothain. It is good to be back. I trust nothing out of hand transpired in my absence."

"Not a thing, my Lord. It's been as quiet as June around here."

There was a heavy pause before Éomer looked up. The expression on his long-time friend's face was a mixture of restlessness and longing. Éomer began chuckling. "What is wrong?" he asked patiently, although he suspected he already knew.

"Éomer," began the other man hesitantly, "do not mistake me. My assignment here is a great honor. That you would trust me with such a distinguished position brings me great joy. And of course, it gives me much time to be with my family…"

"So what is the problem?" Éomer asked plainly, raising his eyebrows.

Éothain sighed. "I had no idea it would be so exceptionally dull, Éomer!"

Éomer burst out laughing.

The other man did not seem inclined to do likewise. "I have not been on a good, long ride for nearly three months. There is only so much work involved in overseeing the readiness of the stables, and I even tried offering to assist Garwyn with her housekeeping duties, but she seemed insulted that I would even suggest such a thing."

Éomer, still laughing, reached out and clapped the man affectionately on the shoulder. "If these are the greatest woes that peacetime brings us, I should be very grateful, Éothain, would you not agree?"

His friend shook his head and gave a wistful sigh. "Of course, Your Highness. But might I advise sending for your halfling friends soon? They provide unparalleled amusement."

"I would with all my heart, my friend, I fear they have been forced to sacrifice the carefree life for that of unexpected responsibility, much like yourself."

"Poor souls," Éothain said, mournfully.

"I am not reassigning you, Éothain," Éomer said pointedly.

"Very well, Sire."

"How is the queen?" Éomer asked then. He voiced the question lightly, but within he was burning with curiosity. He worried over Lothíriel. Since her recovery, she'd quietly and industriously begun taking over her new duties in managing the household. To Éomer's approval, she assumed her role with authority, not allowing herself to be intimidated by Garwyn, Éothain's wife, who heretofore had been acting as housekeeper since Éowyn's departure. The woman tended to be a little overbearing at times, and as she was five years Lothíriel's senior and had become quite comfortable in the position, he'd worried that the inevitable tension might cause an upheaval. If Lothíriel was having any problems in this arena, however, she had not confided in him, and he got the feeling it was the kind of problem she'd want to work out on her own, anyway.

Yet for all that, she remained a stranger.

It was Garwyn whom Éomer and Éothain encountered first when they crossed the threshold into the Golden Hall. Instantly, she set the basket of washing she'd been carrying down on the floor and bowed. "Welcome home, my Lord."

"Garwyn," Éomer returned with a brisk nod. He looked around. "Where is the queen?"

"She is taking inventory of goods and supplies and arranging them to her liking," Garwyn said levelly, though Éomer noted a slight stiffness in her jaw at the latter words. "She has been since yesterday morning."

At that moment, Lothíriel herself stepped carefully into the room, also laden with laundry, trying not to trip over the ever-present Froilas, who dashed around her into the hall and immediately began bounding all over Éomer, barking joyfully.

"My Lord Éomer," greeted Lothíriel, in her usual gentle manner. "I did not know you had returned. Emeí," she said, turning to the girl just behind her, "run and see that a bath is drawn up for the king."

Éomer straightened from petting the hound. "That won't be necessary," he said, then offered a grin. "It's far too hot. I'll clean up in the river before supper this evening."

It was the first time since her arrival that Lothíriel's face reflected anything but carefully placed serenity. She seemed surprised. "As you wish, my Lord," she said after a moment, her eyes flicking briefly up and down his riding gear, dusty and grimy from the road. Her valiant attempt to hide her disapproval was almost comical. She shook herself a little. "Would you care for any refreshment, then? We've already had dinner, but I'm sure that something could be prepared for you now. Garwyn?" she added, looking over at the other woman.

"Yes, my lady," Garwyn replied, nodding curtly.

Éomer allowed himself to be fretted over, enjoying the cold mutton and ale, and telling a politely attentive Lothíriel the details of his journey, the land dispute, and the results. She offered similar experiences her father had dealt with over the years. When he finished, he took his leave to the river, deciding to partake in the promised bath before the sun got too low, after which he was cloistered away for the inevitable meetings with his advisors until supper.

It was an exhausting day, and certainly the last thing Éomer expected that evening was a timid knock on his chamber door as he prepared himself for bed. Even more unexpected was Lothíriel's slight form slipping diffidently through at his bidding. She clutched her thin summer robe over her body, and she moved very uncertainly.

"Lothíriel?" he prompted softly, after she'd stood there for a few long moments, staring in discomfort at the floor.

"My lord, it has been some weeks since we were married," she began awkwardly. Her voice trembled, but she plunged bravely on. "I am quite recovered from my illness, but you have not requested my presence at night, and I wasn't certain—" here she trailed off, flushing slightly.

Éomer had to admire her courage. Certainly this matter had crossed his mind, but the invisible walls Lothíriel still maintained around herself set him ill at ease. The circumstances of their strange wedding had, of course, prevented a wedding-night consummation, and Éomer had been hard pressed to decide if this was a blessing or a curse. He'd known all along the situation would be awkward, particularly for Lothíriel, and he hadn't wanted to pressure, but it would have been difficult to gracefully extricate themselves from the traditional duties of such a night. On the other hand, perhaps such a scenario would have been the easiest and swiftest way to overcome the obstacle. In any case, there was nothing to be done about it now. Fate, it seemed, had chosen the harder road.

He stepped up to her and studied her thoughtfully. Already songmakers in Rohan had written tributes, praising the beauty and grace of their new queen, likening her to many elven maidens of legend. Éomer understood that her presence here was an offering—compliant and dutiful, and that he had every right as her husband and her king to accept and partake. He very much longed to do so. Her hair, soft and straight and raven black, gleamed on her shoulders and beckoned to be touched, but Éomer resisted. She still had not met his eyes, and he knew it was duty only that had brought her here.

Instead, he reached out and touched her arm gently, near the elbow, and his suspicions were confirmed by the slight stiffening of her body, though she did not shy away. "Wait until you're ready," he said after a moment, he said softly, and dropped his hand.

"My Lord, you cannot expect to wait forever," she said, this time sounding less timid and, to his surprise, a little bit stubborn and upset. "Your people will expect an heir, and I understood perfectly well when I agreed to marry you—"

"Lothíriel," he cut her off, firmly, but not unkindly. "I know," he said. "I know that. But I promised you time, and time you shall have."

She finally looked up and met his gaze, relief evident in her eyes, mingled with gratefulness and concern. "And what if I never am… ready?" she finally asked, searching him in trepidation.

He gave a small, encouraging smile. "We wait and see, I suppose." His expression sobered and he and he added softly, "But you never need fear me, Lothíriel, I promise." He took her hand and kissed it respectfully, and then stepped away, as if to reaffirm his resolve. "Goodnight."

She took a deep breath, now much more relaxed, and nodded. "Goodnight," she replied, offering another small smile of thanks before she turned and made her departure. 

Éomer pondered the exchange for a long while afterward. He could only hope that time was the only thing needed to bridge the distance between them.

* * *

**Replies:**

**Eokat**- The wedding was imminent and didn't even end up being on screen. LOL Hope you're still enjoying.

**smor**- He most certainly does! There's some hidden switch inside Lothíriel he just needs to figure out how to activate and everything will fall into place, I'm sure. ;-)

**lsoa**- You're perfectly welcome. More flashbacks forthcoming. Hopefully more in-depth than the vague ideas I have in my head just now… hehe.

**Kyae**- Yes, a sense of purpose is really what's been driving Lothíriel all along. **Spacepirate**- I hope by now your computer woes have been set at bay. Thank you for your encouraging and continuous feedback.

**Tracey**- I was glad for the wording of your review, because it very nicely summarizes Lothíriel's conflict. My fear throughout this story is that she's coming of as mercurial and wishy-washy, when in reality, there's a furious war going on inside her between two essential parts of her character, poor girl. But she'll get it sorted out eventually. LOL

**Lirima Tindomiel**- (raises hand) I was one of those people, haha. Reconciling the age difference has been a pain, but strangely rewarding. And inserting either children or adorable animals into a story is always a good way to provide levity. :-D

**Terreis**- Haha. As you can see, all did not exactly go well with Lothíriel for her wedding. I am cruel and evil, I know. As for Éomer, he is still being his larger than life wonderful self. Honestly, I think I might be writing him a little _too_ idealistically, but the nice thing about writing LotR is that I can always point to Tolkien's templates and be justified in getting away with it. Mwuahaha.

**Blue Eyes at Night**- Thanks! I don't have a dog, myself, though we had a very sweet golden retriever for a long time before she died. She was much more docile than Froilas, however. :-P

**Angel St. Mathew**- No, it's not the end, although with my long absence I'm sure you assumed so. Heh. In any case, thanks for the review!

**estelle3974**- Thank you! I very much appreciate your 'delurking' for my story. I'm glad you've been enjoying yourself, and hope you continue reading.

**Amariel**- Thanks! I enjoy writing character-driven stories, but they can be exhausting sometimes. Hope you stick around!

* * *

**A/N:**- Well! I apologize profusely for the delay. I know I said it might be a little bit longer than usual, but even _I_ didn't anticipate the entire month. Thank you for your patience. Again, writing will be a bit slower than it was in the beginning, but I already have ideas for the next chapter, so it should, at least, be up sooner than _this_ one was. :-P On that note, sorry it's so short, but it accomplished its purpose within the larger tale, so I stopped writing. LOL

And believe me when I tell you that I thought Lothíriel was just as crazy as the rest of you are thinking in this scene. Is she nuts!?! ;-)

Until next time, love those reviews! You guys are awesome readers!

Saché 


	9. The Work of Hands

**Chapter Nine**- _The Work of Hands_

When Éowyn had advised Lothíriel that life in Edoras might offer more than she was accustomed to in physical labor, she had not been exaggerating. All things being said, neither the city nor the Golden Hall was a prime example of high and mighty grandeur. It had been almost two months since her wedding, and Lothíriel had done more washing, cooking, sewing, and tending than ever before in the whole course of her life. In addition, she had her duties as queen— managing household stores and accounts, overseeing what little staff Éomer kept on hand, and acting as a quiet and supportive advisor to the king when she felt her opinion appropriate. It had been very difficult to adjust.

At least her muscles seemed at last to be catching up to her new lifestyle. She wondered how long it would take for her hands to similarly adapt. The other women, she noticed, had very tough hands— thick, callused, well-worn. Lothíriel's hands were usually dry and cracked, though she did her best to alleviate them with various kind of salves when she got the chance. In addition, they ached and often bled, and she found herself wishing for either her old, soft, white hands or the leather-tough hands of the other women. This in-between phase was most troublesome. But it seemed only time would make the transition.

Lothíriel knew she could perhaps have gotten away with less work than she heaped upon herself, but she was always acutely aware of how many Rohirrim still viewed her as an outsider. For that matter, she still viewed _herself_ as an outsider. The best way she could think of to earn her new people's respect and acceptance was to prove that she was not above doing everything required for their way of life. 

Today, Lothíriel was grateful for a break from spinning— a task for which she seemed hopelessly inept, and which seemed to be a kind of constant no matter the time of year. Instead, she had been surprised after breakfast by the men bringing several large bundles of stripped tree-bark and depositing them in the hall, where they left crumbling flakes of bark and dirt all over the floor. The bark, Gaerwyn explained in her usual begrudging manner, was a critical element in the process of tanning leather. The women had all donned large aprons, and had spent the day with knife, mortar, and pestle, chopping, pounding, and finely grinding the bark into powder, a process that was very hard on Lothíriel's shoulders, but was blissfully free of the necessary precision she hadn't been able to master in spinning.

The long, narrow solar on the Eastern side of the Golden Hall served many purposes. In the winter, Lothíriel was told, it was the warmest room in the Hall, having the best fireplace and capturing the most sunshine. In the summer, the large, wide windows could be thrown open, allowing the brisk winds of Medueselde to offer respite from the heat. Here the ladies spent most of their daytime hours. The room also served as a bedchamber for several of the household servants. A large bed that would accommodate many was situated at the far end, underneath which were stuffed pallets and bedclothes for additional sleeping places, pulled out each night and put neatly away each morning.

It was here they worked now, while Lothíriel let Emeí chatter away in her usual vivacious manner. Despite her youth, the girl had become Lothíriel's friend and mainstay. Open, bright, accepting-she was eager to be helpful and welcoming. She was an orphan-her only family her older brother who was presently training to be a Rider with Erkenbrand's troops in the Westmark. Lothíriel noticed after her first few days in Edoras that Emeí seemed to command an unusual level of respect from all members of Éomer's household, a point she found most curious until she learned that the girl's father had been one Hama, former bodyguard to King Théoden, and the most revered of the fallen men at Helm's Deep. Emeí had been living at the Golden Hall since that time, and Éomer had assigned her as Lothíriel's chief companion. 

In the corner of the room, Froilas chewed and slobbered away on a particularly stubby branch that Lothíriel had procured to placate her, while Emeí explained to Lothíriel the long and painstaking process of making leather. There were many steps, and it took over a year for the animal hides to be acceptable for use, meaning that several cycles of the process were ongoing at any given time, in various stages. When the butchering was done in the autumn or the spring, the hides from the animals would be flayed and soaked in salt and water, until they were clean enough for tanning. This involved further soaking for many days in a solution made from the tree bark and various herbs that were gathered and prepared during the year. There were many further steps of washing, drying, and softening that followed, and when it was finally done, the leather was turned over to the loving hands of the saddle makers and leather craftsmen. Lothíriel marveled at the intricacy of the process. She'd never really stopped to consider how many things the leather was used for. She supposed her father's household used similar methods, but she had never witnessed them.

As soon as the women had wrapped up their work for the day— she estimated that grinding all the bark would probably take the better part of a week— Lothíriel's curiosity led her to Éomer's chambers before beginning her supper preparations. His riding armor was perched in the corner on a wooden stand designed to support the heavy gear. She paused hesitantly in the doorway, looking around to ensure she was alone. She had learned to be comfortable in all corners of the Golden Hall except this place. Here, she still felt as though she were intruding.

In the quietest portions of her heart, Lothíriel knew there was another reason she kept herself so busy. If her mind and body were driven by activity to the point of utter exhaustion, she would have neither the time nor the energy to second-guess her decision now that she was here. And she wouldn't have time to think about the guilt she suffered when she thought of her husband.

The night Lothíriel had gone to Éomer's chambers— the night he'd so chivalrously forgone his husband's rights—had weighed heavily in the back of her thoughts. What she hadn't told him of were the quiet, disapproving whispers that had begun circulating about Edoras concerning her hesitance in this arena . Lothíriel wondered if Éomer was aware of them. Chivalry or no, if she held off on the nighttime aspect of her queenly duties for too long, the people would not think well of her.

Above all, though, her frustration was with herself. In her mind she knew that Éomer was a good man and a good husband. He'd said she had nothing to fear from him, and she knew in her heart that his words were true. In fact, they were becoming more comfortable about interacting with one another on a day-to-day level. King and queen, she knew, worked very well together, but there was still a wall between husband and wife— a wall that Théodred, son of Théoden, was still sitting upon.

* * *

_Year 3016 of the Third Age_

Lothíriel was accustomed to vast expanses, but not made of earth. Her familiarity was with water— the ocean roiling out to the horizon. Looking down from the pinnacle of Minas Tirith, the horizon was not quite so pleasant. It was a long line of dark, brooding mountains, tall and sharp and foreboding. They contrasted sharply with the white stone of the low wall beneath her hand.

"It mesmerizes, does it not?"

The words were accompanied by heavy footfall on the stone walkway behind her. Lothíriel smiled softly at the speaker as she turned, despite the gravity of his question. "Théodred," she greeted.

He nodded a return greeting and stepped up quietly to stand beside her. Then he too turned to consider the vista below and beyond them. Lothíriel glanced nervously down at her hands, which were now clenched more tightly on the edge of the wall, and tried to calm the sudden hastening of her breathing. She'd thought her fancy for Théodred these past few years had been little more than a child's whimsy, but since their unforeseen reunion in the White City, she found herself unable to shake it. It was flustering and unnerving, and she was quite sure he must think her going mad, for his presence seemed to tie her tongue into knots whenever he was near.

And he was near quite often. Lothíriel surely could not comprehend why so great a man favored her company—why he'd ever favored it, even when she was just a child. Yet despite all commonsensical arguments, Théodred of Rohan had sought her company often during the past few days.

"It has been growing very dark, of late," Théodred said at last, nodding at the border in the distance.

Lothíriel shivered. "Is it this matter that holds you all in council so long these days?"

"Yes."

She glanced up. Eight years' time had etched careworn lines in his face that had not always been there, and she grieved at the many unnamed burdens that seemed to have befallen him since their last meeting. "My cousin Boromir has done much riding, these past few months," she said knowingly. "He recruits more and more warriors to my uncle's service. They have even asked support from my father in this regard." She gave a very heavy sigh. "Yet none of this has served to lighten the darkening of their spirits."

"You are very perceptive, lady." He said simply, his voice edged with admiration.

"Théodred," she said, feeling slightly emboldened. "I hope you will not think me intrusive, but…" Then she hesitated.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned.

"Might I ask what it was that brought you all this way to Minas Tirith? We certainly had not been led to expect you." Imrahil, Amrothos, and Lothíriel had been in residence in the White City for almost half the summer now, but Théodred's arrival three days previous had been utterly unforeseen. 

"The growing troubles you have noted have not left my country unaffected, either, Lothíriel. Evil seems to be festering and multiplying in all the dark places of the world, not just—" he paused, and glanced back once more towards the line of mountains in the distance. "Not just in Mordor," he concluded, glaring at them as if challenging them to comment on his daring. He did not see Lothíriel's brief shiver. "Orcs come from the mountains. They attack along the river. Their numbers seem unceasing at times. I am becoming increasingly concerned."

"So your father bid you advise Lord Denethor of the situation?"

Théodred's expression became even more grim, and for a moment he gave no reply. At last, he said, "My father did not bid me. I came of my own accord. I will be forced to deal with his consternation upon my return, for, in truth, he was against this course, and I came against his express bidding. In Edoras," he added, hesitatingly, "things are… becoming difficult." Théodred's eyes were very sad as he spoke. 

She wished he would elaborate, but she did not push her curiosity. But when he broke his transfixed stare on the distant menace of Mordor and turned to look at her again, his eyes sparked with an ember of their former life and he smiled. Lothíriel smiled back, certain that no amount of worry could ever completely kill his merry nature. "Let us speak of it no more," he then said. "What has drawn you out here today, my lady?"

"My head is full of thoughts I cannot sort through," she said truthfully as they turned from the wall and began walking back towards the main part of the courtyard. In the distance, she spied the figure of her father conferring with her uncle the Lord Denethor, her cousin Boromir, and other councilors of Gondor. "I sought solitude, exercise, and fresh air to try and clear it."

"The former of which I have just spoiled, haven't I?" he asked, suddenly chuckling. "My apologies. And of what nature are these thoughts, might I ask?"

Lothíriel flushed slightly. She could hardly own to him that he was the source of her consternation. "I fear, my Lord, that it is a private matter."

"In that case," he continued, "it must be some fine fellow of Dol Amroth with whom you have become enraptured." 

"My Lord!" she cried, looking up at him in shock, appalled at his forthrightness.

Théodred only laughed harder. "No? Of Minas Tirith, then."

Still blushing profusely, Lothíriel only ducked her head and shook it emphatically. "You have no business to ask me such a thing, Théodred of Rohan," she said, trying to scold, but only succeeding in letting a traitorous smile of amusement past her guard. 

"Perhaps not," he said, still grinning. "Perhaps I should apologize, but I would not be completely honest if I said I was sorry. It is amusing to see you so out of sorts, my Lady."

"You are incorrigible," Lothíriel managed at last, still shaking her head.

"But I'm not far wrong, am I?" he asked, stepping back. He crossed his arms and scrutinized her. 

"What an impertinent thing to ask a lady, Théodred," she said huffily, putting her hands on her hips. Her exasperation was taking the edge off her formality. "I refuse to participate any further in this line of conversation."

"You are absolutely right, my lady," he said, giving a small half-bow. "I will stop at once, but might I ask a favor in return?"

"And what is that?" she asked warily.

"That you favor Lord Denethor's court this evening with your harp. You have not played since my arrival. I have found myself longing for the privilege of hearing you. And tomorrow I must take my leave."

Instantly, Lothíriel's face betrayed her disappointment. "Why so, my lord?"

He smiled sadly. "My business here is completed, Lothíriel. I dare not linger long away from my home and my father."

Lothíriel curtseyed low. "It will be my honor to play for you this evening, my Lord, if that is your wish."

* * *

A noiseless tear dropped from Lothíriel's cheek as the memory faded. She made no effort to wipe it away. Instead, she reached out and lightly ran her fingers over the surface of Éomer's armor, which she now stood before. Her fingers grazed an imperfection in it— a nick about the thickness of her thumb, carefully patched, and she wondered what sort of battle had been its author. Had it been during the recent victory over Sauron and the forces of Mordor? Or had it been those increasing clashes and skirmishes in the dark, looming evil that Théodred had spoken of with such concern that day on the wall of the city? The arrow— as she guessed it'd been—hadn't seemed to have pierced the leather completely.

It was clear the armor was the work of a master artisan. Each piece was expertly cut, shaped, and sewn in perfect compliment to its neighbors. Lothíriel was fascinated that something so strong and practical could still be so beautiful. 

"Lothíriel?"

Éomer's puzzled voice behind her caused her to leap several inches in shock. She turned in haste, flushing deeply in mortification. What a picture she must have made!

"My Lord," she fumbled helplessly, "my apologies, I did not mean to disturb you in any—"

"It is all right, Lothíriel," he said, holding up a hand. He still looked confused. "Was there something you needed?" The question almost made her smile. How was she supposed to explain a curiosity about his armor? He probably thought she'd come her for some other purpose and had only been studying it to occupy herself.

"This is beautiful," she said after a moment's dumb pause, fumbling a bit in her embarrassment. She held her fingertips out once more towards the armor. "Emeí was teaching me about tanning today, and I wanted a closer look."

He took an interested step closer. "An interesting pursuit for a woman," he commented.

"Why should I not be inquisitive?" Lothíriel put forth, not sure whether or not she should take offense at this. "I have always been interested in all forms of craftsmanship. Today I discovered one that I have taken for granted." She eyed him cautiously. 

He nodded to where her hand was still resting. "Armor leather is very thick and difficult for a woman to work with. I know a little of the trade— a soldier is encouraged to be familiar with all of his gear and how to care for it. You never know what sort of repairs might be called for at brief notice."

Almost automatically, Lothíriel's eyes sought the nick she'd seen earlier. "Did you repair this one yourself?" she wondered.

"Yes."

Lothíriel hesitated, her other previous thoughts repeating themselves as well. "Éomer," she asked quietly, "how long was it that the concern Théodred carried for his father began?" Her voice was pained. "You said the king was bewitched," she remembered awkwardly. It had been over a year since they'd spoken of it on the journey to Rohan. "I always knew there was something more dismal at work than Théodred would confess. His weariness and burden hung about him like clinging fog, but in this matter alone he would not confide in me. I still wish that he had."

"Do you know why he did not?" Éomer asked quietly.

"He said it was not something he wished to burden _me_ with— that there was nothing I could do to help. But he was wrong. I would have helped him merely by allowing him to share his pain." She sighed. Then she gave a small smile. "But I am certain that you were well-acquainted with his stubbornness."

Éomer chuckled heartily. "Yes, that is certain. No doubt Théodred felt he was doing you a favor."

"Do you agree? I have often feared he thought me weak."

"Never, my lady," Éomer was swift to reply. "Of that I can assure you."

"In his place, would you have done the same?"

"I am not certain. It is less disheartening a story now than it would have been four years ago. In those days, we feared my uncle's mind was gone forever."

"But it proved not to be so," she said knowingly, thinking of the great deeds performed by Théoden King in his last days.

For a long moment, Éomer did not reply. Instead, he studied her thoughtfully. At last, he said, "If you are really interested in learning more of the leatherwork, I would be happy to teach you what I know. As I said, it is not often a pursuit made by our women, but it is not unheard of. Perhaps in that time I might tell you the circumstances of which you wish to know."

Lothíriel's eyes widened. "You have so little time for leisure, my Lord," she argued. "I would not have you squander it on my account."

"On the contrary, lady, I would consider it an investment. A venture worthy of great reward."

She could not look directly at him for a moment. She knew he paid her a very flattering compliment, but she was as yet unable to take them easily. Still, she realized, it was high time she stopped ignoring the man. And his offer was both appealing and relieving—such an industrious means of spending time together would take the edge off of her discomfort. 

"Very well," she said slowly, doing her best to make her smile genuine. "When might we begin?"

He cocked his head thoughtfully. "After supper?" Then he laughed. "But not before. I'm afraid priority is quite insistent in this matter."

Lothíriel smiled more easily this time. "I agree, and so I shall attend to it at once."

* * *

**Replies:**

**Terreis**- I hope you have quite recovered from your Carson-related shock. Abominable characterization should be fined or something. My Thanksgiving was quite lovely, thank you very much!

**Blue Eyes at Midnight**- I've actually given a lot of pondering to how our wonderful noblemen in LotR would conduct themselves with regard to physical intimacy. While it's true that in medieval times people tended to be very promiscuous (hey, kind of like today! sarcastic), I don't think that _everything_ about the medieval lifestyle needs to be adhered to in the LotR world. Let's face it, these men are just plain larger-than-life characters, and I like to imagine that they have their own moral code about how men and women should be together, including the practice of abstinence before marriage and fidelity afterward.

**lsoa**- I think this chapter was considerably meatier. I hope it was to your satisfaction. :-)

**smor**- Yes, perhaps we should _all_ avoid such realms of our imagination. ;-)

**Eokat**- Sometime soon, we hope, but gradually. LOL

**jadeddiva**- Thanks for the review! Hope I didn't keep you in suspense too terribly long.

**Tracey**- Undoubtedly, the principle of fidelity in the Christian faith was an attraction as well. Interesting tidbit of history. I've never heard that before. And it's easy as pie to give good reviews to such interesting feedback! :-)

**Lady ot Rings**- A writer is always glad to be told they're refreshing. Thanks for dropping by—please stick around!

**Aikaze**- Hmmn. Indeed. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm writing Éomer a little _too_ good to be true, but I have so much fun doing it that I suppose in the end I don't care. LOL. Thanks for the reply.

**Wondereye**- Thanks for the compliment and good thought on the argument. It doesn't seem very likely that they can just go on tiptoeing around each other forever, does it?

**Spacepirate**- Hehe. Éothain's hobbit-request was a favorite moment of mine, as well. I figured it'd be poetic justice upon him, since he was skeptical of them in the book. ;-)

**Amariel**- Thanks! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**recollect me darling**- whispers Actually, formal dialogue isn't that difficult to get a feel for. You just need to watch and read hours and hours of Jane Austen stories. LOL. Thanks for the review.

**Rachel A. Prongs**- HEhehe. You and me both, girlfriend. cough Bad Saché!

**DesolateAznVamp**- Thanks for the review!

* * *

**A/N:** I'd like to thank the Old Hide House for it's wonderfully informative website concerning historical tanning techniques and other general leather-related information. Researching for this chapter was very interesting. Please excuse any un-caught typos—I am updating in a rush and don't have time to properly read through it. Until next time!

Saché 


	10. A Nurturing Spirit

**Chapter Ten** – _A Nurturing Spirit_

The summer waxed longer and hotter under Arien's sun. The wheat and barley grew thick and plentiful, and serenity seemed to flourish along with them. Lothíriel came to enjoy best of all the washing days, down on the broad, grassy banks of the River Snowbourn, a little ways away from the city. When the washing itself was finished, the women let the sun sap dry their day's work upon the warm rocks, and went swimming in the cool, brown river water. It did not take long for Lothíriel to decide that she infinitely preferred river bathing to sea bathing, a revelation that came as something of a surprise. But then, she reflected, she'd always hated the taste that saltwater had left in her mouth, despite her best attempts to avoid it.

"I think," she said contentedly, as she finally extricated herself from the water one sunny afternoon in late August, "that we should have washing every day." She'd spent the last quarter of an hour floating lazily and serenely on her back, blocking out everything around her but the warmth of the sun on her face and the blissful feeling of weightlessness. Taking a seat beside Emeí, she began wringing out her hair. Soon enough it would be time to gather up all the clean clothes and get ready to leave. She would need to be dry enough herself to accompany them back.

Emeí merely giggled a reply, but Gaerwyn, sitting a couple of feet away, frowned slightly. "You will not enjoy it so well in the winter, my lady. Everything must be done indoors, the water becomes icy before long, and drying everything near the fire is exceedingly slow."

Lothíriel couldn't help but scowl as she shook out her hair. "Well, it is not yet winter, Gaerwyn," she snapped without looking at the other woman. She knew that she should probably regret even the slight display of temper, but she found she did not. From the beginning, the housekeeper had harbored an air of a quiet sullenness and resentment, but lately it seemed to be worsening.

"Yes, my lady," Gaerwyn replied impassively, and said nothing else as the women gathered up the day's washing, loaded it into the wagon they'd brought, and began their trek back to the city. Lothíriel's good mood, however, was decidedly sullied, and she pondered the incident the whole way home.

Home was even less peaceful when they arrived. Lothíriel was taken aback by the sight of the hall, a quarter full with loud, arguing men, all clustered around something in the middle that she could not properly see. Bewildered, she set her basket down in the middle of the floor and was trying to decide the best way to assert her authority among such rowdy subjects, when an irritated, roaring voice made itself known above the others.

"By the fords, man, stand aside! I am no suckling babe that you need hover over me like a puttering woman!" Lothíriel's eyes widened at the sound of her husband's voice and narrowed just as quickly, taking slight offense at the latter association. 

By this time, a few of the men had noticed the newcomers, and Lothíriel seized the chance to take control of the situation. "What is going on?" she asked, putting her hands questioningly on her hips and taking in several of their gazes at once. She kept her voice calm and authoritative.

Reluctantly, the men stepped aside, Éothain last of all, to reveal the hunched form of Éomer sitting precariously on a bench, clearly in great pain. Instantly, all pretensions of coolness fled Lothíriel's features, and she rushed forward in concern. "What happened?" she demanded of Éothain, trying her best not to sound accusatory. 

"The new stock, my lady," he began awkwardly, "King Elessar sent us many of those smaller, southern horses captured from the Haradrim during the war—"

"I know that," she interrupted, glaring at him pointedly.

"Well," he continued, still looking most uncomfortable, "they are not quite so steadfast as our own. Perhaps it was an effect of new surroundings, or—"

"I was kicked," Éomer grunted through gritted teeth. He looked at Éothain. "Just say it."

At this, Lothíriel instantly surmised the reason for all the awkwardness and hesitation, but she decided not to worry about the ridiculousness of wounded horseman's pride just now. "Where?" she asked, though from the way Éomer was clutching his midsection, she was fairly certain she knew.

"In the stomach and the ribs, lady," supplied another rider quickly, earning him a reproachful look from the king.

Deftly, Lothíriel circumvented Éomer's protesting fingers to pull up the hem of his shirt, only to wince at the sight of a couple of very large, swelling, dark purple bruises. In several places the skin had broken, as well, and the bleeding areas looked decidedly unhealthy. "Emeí, fetch some hot water and bring it to the king's chambers," she instructed quickly. "Gaerwyn, find the healer in the village, tell him of the king's condition, and do anything he requires of you. Bring him here. The rest of you," she took in all the riders with her best queenly gaze, "go away. This puttering wife is going to take care of her husband. Go!"

She put Éomer's arm over her shoulder and began helping him hobble towards his bedchamber. He was a very solid man, and broad, but fortunately he was still able to bear most of his weight on his own. She noticed that he did his best to stifle his grunts of pain and staggered breathing, and could not hold back a small smile of amusement. Nothing short of the Valar themselves would likely ever separate the Rohirrim men from their silly pride.

Once Éomer had been settled in the large bed, Lothíriel stripped him to the waist and pulled off his boots, wrinkling her nose at their smell before she set them by the door. She didn't have very much experience tending physical injuries, so until Emeí brought the water, she could do little more than glance helplessly at Éomer's purpled chest. While she waited, she attempted to start a fire in the grate— something she'd never tried before. After three failed attempts, she let out a loud sigh of frustration.

Behind her, she heard a pained chuckling from Éomer. "A valiant attempt, my lady," he said, "but I'm afraid there is not enough—" here he paused to take a deep breath, "—kindling in there to really keep anything going."

She made a face over her shoulder before returning to him with flint and tinder in hand. "That would matter little," she confessed, "as one would require a proper spark to light any sort of kindling in the first place." She looked helplessly at the tools.

He chuckled again, and she returned with a slight smile, at least until his face suddenly pinched in a gasp of discomfort. Then she frowned. "Try not to laugh or talk too much," she instructed. "And don't touch that!" she added, snatching his hand away from where it had been heading towards his wound.

"Why is it," Éomer asked, resuming a broad smile, "that even the gentlest and mildest of women become as great warlords when attending the sick?" His expression could hardly be called anything but fond, and Lothíriel blushed slightly.

"This is embarrassing for you, isn't it?" she asked, changing the subject. She raised her brows at him appraisingly. "The First Marshall of the Riddermark being kicked by a _horse_?" Her voice lowered to a scandalized tease.

It was Éomer's turn to scowl. "So you _do_ have a tongue, I see," he commented wryly. "I confess I had begun to wonder." Lothíriel did not reply, so he went on. "Yes, I fear this will be the inevitable subject of jokes and tavern stories for some long while," he said resignedly. He glanced back at her, eyes twinkling. "No doubt I'll now go down in the annals as Éomer the bungling."

She smiled and shook her head. "Nay, my lord. Already they call you Éomer _Eadig_. Blessed king of peace and prosperity." She cocked her head. "And I believe it is a title rightly fitting."

Éomer did not reply for a moment. He sobered and looked thoughtful at these words, and she could see that he was not displeased. Then, he held up his hands, indicating that she should give him the flint and tinder still grasped in her own. Curious, she complied. "Strike it like this," he said gently, demonstrating. "With a firm hand, and always tilted away from your face."

"I see," she said obediently, nodding her head. Then she pulled the tools back from him. "Now give me those before you set your own bed ablaze."

When Emeí finally came with the water, Lothíriel did her best to begin washing Éomer's cuts until the healer arrived. Seeing as how he hissed and winced and grunted throughout the entire process, she was more than willing to turn him over to another's care. 

The healer determined that, in addition to the bruises, Éomer had suffered a couple of badly cracked ribs and would need a couple weeks of bed rest at least. After everything had been thoroughly cleaned and mended as best as was able, Lothíriel helped the healer bind the king's tender chest. The healer also gave Éomer medicines to ease his pain and to help him sleep, and within half an hour he was breathing much more serenely.

* * *

When Éomer awoke, darkness had fallen. It took a moment for him to recall all that had happened earlier, and he looked around his silent bedchamber, wondering what had transpired while he was asleep. It was easy to see everything, as someone had managed to start a fire after all. Whether or not Lothíriel had succeeded after his tutelage he could not be certain.

Lothíriel...

Only then did he notice her, fast asleep, her head resting on her arms on the edge of the bed beside his arm. Even if he hadn't been able to see half her face, pressed uncomfortably into the crook of her elbow, he would have recognized her, for she was the only person in the Golden Hall who had dark hair. 

He shifted slightly, trying to ease muscles numb from inertia, and immediately regretted it. Lothíriel jerked awake with a small gasp, then rubbed her eyes slightly. A moment later, she noticed that he was awake and alert. "Forgive me, my lord," she said wearily. "I had not meant to drift off."

"You should go to bed, Lothíriel," he chided gently.

"And so I shall," she calmly replied, rising to her feet. "But I wanted to make sure you had something to eat first. You've not eaten since midday, if I'm not mistaken."

Chivalry demanded Éomer should argue, but he found himself unwilling to do so, partly because no sooner had the words left her mouth than he discovered he was famished. More than that, though, he was entranced by her quiet, graceful movements about the room. The dim, flickering firelight and hushed evening silence seemed to cast a spell upon him. There was a small cook pot hanging from a spit in the fireplace, which Lothíriel carefully removed with gloved hands and set on a small table nearby. She ladled some of its contents into a bowl, added some water, and brought it carefully to him, cradling it with cloths to ward off the heat of the bowl in her hand. "It's just broth with barley," she said apologetically. "But I wasn't sure how well your stomach would take to something stronger, after such a blow."

"Well enough," he replied, pretending to be affronted. 

Lothíriel smiled. "Do you think you can sit up? I would spare you the indignity of being fed by hand."

"Very kind of you, my lady," he said, not wholly insincere. He carefully achieved a sitting position, and Lothíriel put every pillow on the bed behind him before she finally handed him the broth. 

"There is water, as well," she said as he gratefully began to eat.

"What time is it?" he abruptly thought to ask between bites.

"I do not believe I was asleep for very long," Lothíriel replied. "It is nearing midnight."

"And how long am I to be a prisoner in my own bedchamber?" he asked, bracing himself to patiently bear the answer. Healers were ridiculously stubborn about their instruction in such things.

"A fortnight," she said with another smile, as if reading his mind.

His reaction was a loud, slow, frustrated sigh. "I never imagined I'd be so annoyed with a horse," he muttered. 

"Give them time, my lord. Learning to live as one of the Rohirrim is no simple matter. Were it so, the accomplishment would not be so worth attaining."

"Then if the Haradrim stock adapt as has the Lady of Dol Amroth, we may yet produce the strongest horses ever to grace our plains."

Again she smiled, and he rejoiced at how easily she seemed able to do so lately. "Eat your soup," she ordered. He obeyed without complaint, reflecting upon the change in her today. True, the time they had spent together working on leather craft had been beneficial. He had discovered within her a fervent passion and thirst for knowledge, and as they'd worked, he taught her other things— more of his native tongue and history, amusing stories about his _eored_ that were suitable for a lady's ears, and stories of Éowyn and Théodred. All these things had served to ease the stiltedness that had previously pervaded between them. He felt he knew her better now, and even dared to hope that she considered him a friend. 

Not until today, though, had she displayed the kind of tenderness he now enjoyed. His head warned him not to think too much of it. Every woman, he'd observed, possessed a nurturing spirit, patient and concerned, when there were those who needed nursing.

Watching her, Éomer observed several signs of his wife's weariness. He ate as quickly as he could, despite Lothíriel ensuring he ate two complete bowls. When he'd finished, she helped him settle back into bed, tucked the blankets comfortably back around him, and promptly excused herself, promising to check in again first thing in the morning.

He lay awake for some long minutes after she'd gone. Perhaps, he reflected, the next two weeks wouldn't be so tedious after all.

* * *

**Replies:**

**Terreis**- (giggles at jealous Daniel) And to think, you made him wary at first. ;-) Thank you on the… seamless weaving. Although this story really has very little, er… conflict, I do try my best to make the flashbacks and the 'real time' events at least somewhat match up. Thanks for the info on Ro-tel. Mely seemed amazed at my ignorance. I hope your Christmas was nice. I'm eagerly anticipating an update of Fellowship! :-D

**Lady ot Rings**- You know, sometimes the waiting kills me, too. LOL

**smor**- I thought the tanning stuff was interesting to read up on, as well. Of course, had I been forced to do so for some paper or other, you know it wouldn't have been nearly as interesting.

**Spacepirate**- Yikes, I've done the Christmas retail bit as well, several moons ago. Hope you survived relatively unscathed. As for future LotR material… well, I had a very scant Legomance bunny (which is more an egotistical point than any other), but it hasn't really gone anywhere. When this story is concluded I'm actually planning a post- Last Battle _Chronicles of Narnia_ story which I'm very excited about, and which I wish to write before the movie comes out.

**Eokat**- Busy, busy bee, that Lothíriel. I hope her progression with Éomer in this chapter was to your satisfaction.

**klaw**- Thanks!

**Blue Eyes At Night**- Thank you. I was rather pleased with the leather twist.

**Lirima Tindomiel**- (dies laughing) Oh, your review had me laughing and smiling for the better part of the day. I must defend some of my fellow É/L writers and say surely not _everyone_ would have written it that way, but… still. Quite amusing. Thank you for the compliment. I'm glad you like the gradualness. It doesn't seem to be doing much for everyone else… LOL

**Aikaze**- I have a sneaky suspicion that with enough time Lothíriel can master anything she puts her mind to, but I think music will always be her favorite.

**Kwannom**- Brazil! Wow!! And I've not a single word in Portuguese to show off. Darn. Well, thank you so much for sitting up in all that state to read my plodding tale. LOL

**Tracey** - I likewise hope your holidays were enjoyable. I do believe Lothíriel may have gone a whole hour or so without thinking of Théodred in this chapter… at least consciously. She's making progress. Not as fast as Éomer, though. :-P 

**Leslie Lady of Light**- I don't believe many people mind the Théodred/ Lothíriel connection. And thank you for your snippets of marriage details from Tolkien stories. As for my Star Wars fan status… I'm ashamed to say, I've drifted away from SW in general in the past couple of years, being more interested in Stargate and LotR, although I still remain a devout handmaiden enthusiast. Star Wars will always be my first love, though, no matter how much it fades.

**Peachy Papayas**- LOL- thanks for the compliments. I rarely try to write love-at-first sight scenarios, as I've never even fallen in love slowly, let alone at first sight. I must admit my skepticism, but I have a friend who was engaged to her future husband two weeks after first meeting him, so… who knows? Hope you stick around!

**katemary77**- Your thoughts concerning the king's appearance are shared of many. ;-) I hope you had a pleasant holiday!

**Lacy Elize** Thank you, I do my best at courtly manners, though they sometimes feel excessively redundant.

**Katya**- I don't know why I've always been of the opinion that even the Rohirrim royalty were hard workers. I guess maybe because Edoras in the movie is so dang small!

**Lometari**- Thank you! I hope your holidays were pleasant. :-)

**lsoa**- I've a few more flashbacks for you, but they're more scarce than 'real time' stuff, so of course I have to spread them out a bit. Writing as best I can…it's been hectic.

**Novedhelion**- Yes, when it's put in that light it doesn't seem as bad as it did to me at first. The irony, of course, is that they don't end up getting married! Thanks for your review, and please hang around!

* * *

**A/N:** I didn't do a lot of in depth research on this chapter. Very, very lazy. But I was quite pleased with some of the developmental turns it took. Also, if anybody notices spelling inconsistencies in Gaerwyn's name, I apologize. I changed the spelling to one I liked better, and keep forgetting that I did so. I'm not sure if I've changed them all.

Reviews are my sustenance!

Saché 


	11. Echoes of Time

**Chapter Eleven** – _Echoes of Time_

Within a week, Lothíriel began to sympathize with Éomer's frustrated confinement to his bed. She consulted the healer— whom Éomer called a physician— and convinced the man to allow the king a few hours each day out of bed, provided he remained more or less still, and did not tax his healing ribs. The bruising had already begun to fade, and Éomer certainly felt strong and alert, but Lothíriel knew better to let him risk further injury with too much activity too quickly.

The past few days had given her more than ample opportunity to utilize her skills of state. She'd refused to allow Éomer's men and advisors to pester him, instead acting as a sort of emissary in his stead, discussing with them their issues and concerns, then relaying all matters to Éomer with lengthy interviews each morning and evening.

"Lord Melveag of Fenmarch sent you four dozen horses and five score head of cattle as part of his annual tribute," Lothíriel relayed, looking at the list of notes she'd taken during the day.

"The horses?" Éomer prompted.

"Three of the four dozen are mares, my lord."

Éomer rested his head back against the headboard satisfactorily. "Excellent," he replied. "There are too few mares in our current stock."

Lothíriel frowned thoughtfully at her list. "It seems an uncommonly high number of horses, sire, in comparison with the other Lords' tributes."

Éomer nodded knowingly. "He will probably send more," he said. "Fenmarch is not the largest of regions, and much of their land is marshy and difficult to inhabit."

"Rohan's portion of the Firien Wood is in Fenmarch, also, is it not?" Lothíriel asked, bringing to mind her memories of the border region, which she'd passed through three times in her journeys to and from Edoras.

"Yes," Éomer said approvingly. "In short, they do not have the space for large herds, as do the plainsmen. Neither is their cropland as expansive, though what little they have is some of the most fertile in Rohan."

"Because of the waterways," Lothíriel reflected.

"Melvaeg's next tribute will be after harvest, and likely consist of many more horses," Éomer said, "to keep their land from becoming too crowded. Also, fruit from their orchards and gardens, the likes of which you'll not enjoy so well anywhere else in Middle Earth, I'd wager. In exchange for all this, Edoras supplies them with a surplus of grain, which is particularly welcome in the harder winters."

"With smaller herds, though," Lothíriel asked, "what contribution does Fenmarch make to Rohan's forces? Surely it must have an effect."

"Very few Fenmarch ride with the _eohere_," Éomer said. He glanced at her, and seemed surprised at the military nature of her question. "They supply their share of foot soldiers, but their riders were long ago given the special charge to guard Rohan's border along the western road. It is the swiftest and easiest route between Rohan and Gondor. In time of war, they increase their vigilance and patrol, but very rarely leave home to fight."

"And they suffer no condescension from their fellow Rohirrim because of this?"

Éomer looked at her sharply. "Nay, lady. These defenders have seen as much of their share of battle. Without their diligence, much of the Eastfold, even Edoras itself would have been in very significant danger when the rest of the country was not so well manned."

"I see," Lothíriel replied, nodding. She coughed slightly, trying to clear her awkwardness, realizing with overwhelming consciousness how ignorant she still was of this country's ways. She hoped Éomer had not judged _her_ question to be condescending. "In addition," she went on, resuming her report, "Lord Melvaeg requests your blessing in the betrothal to his daughter to Lord Delm's son, of the Eastfold."

Éomer set his lips together and seemed exasperated. "Why does he think I should care, so long as he believes it is for the best?" he complained. He glanced at Lothíriel. "These sorts of requests and petitions seem the most trivial of any I have to deal with," he said impatiently.

Lothíriel smiled a little. "But they do help ensure peace," she pointed out. "As redundant as they may seem, at times. Remember the story of Freca and Helm Hammerhand."

"_That_ incident led to war, not peace," Éomer pointed out. "And I see you have been talking history with Emeí again, for I do not believe I told you that story."

"Well, you are not always available," she pointed out. "Besides, Emeí tells stories so much more colorfully than you do, Éomer."

The king looked stern and disapproving. "I fear she would embellish our history and sacrifice accuracy."

Lothíriel laughed. "Perhaps you're right," she confessed. "However, her embellishments make it easier to remember things. And don't worry, I can read your historical accounts any time I please, and have often done so. Anyway, I will always have you to keep me straight, will I not?"

He grunted in reply, still clearly displeased with Emeí's passionate method of storytelling. "And what did that girl say of Freca and Helm?"

"She draws such an evil picture of Freca," Lothíriel said, laughing, "that in her belief he must have once seen Helm's daughter, and been so overcome by her beauty that he desired to have her as his daughter-in-law because he wished to eventually possess her for himself."

Éomer seemed scandalized. "There is certainly no record of Freca ever having met Helm's daughter," he insisted, "nor is it likely. Add to that, any fool knows that his ambition was influence over Rohan, not the face of a woman."

"I know that," Lothíriel replied patiently. "As does Emeí," she added with another small laugh as Éomer began to protest once more. "She just has a very healthy and… _speculative_ imagination. But that aside," Lothíriel said more seriously, "surely you can see that even _had_ Helm agreed to the union, it likely would have led to war anyway."

Éomer nodded. "I have dwelt long upon this period of our history since I became king," he said, his eyes distant. "There are many questions I would ask of Frealaf, for his situation was very similar to mine."

"Nephew to the king, assuming the throne when he did not expect it, rebuilding the country after a period of great hardship," Lothíriel observed knowingly. "I have drawn these parallels as well." She hesitated, then added, "I think you should not waste very much time in self-doubt, my lord. Your people's love for you speaks more than enough about the success of your rule."

He looked at her wryly. "It is not over yet. It is hardly even begun."

"Nevertheless," she replied, "what I have said is true. As for myself," she added thoughtfully, "I would ask questions of your grandmother, Morwen. Her situation was very similar to _mine_."

"There were some who resented her presence at first," Éomer agreed, nodding. "But in time she came to be much beloved. For the most part, commoners accept such unions as part of the way between nobles. I only wish our people could understand how much Théodred loved you. I think they would be swifter to accept you thus."

At the mention of Théodred, Lothíriel gave a start. While she and Éomer talked of him often, they very rarely spoke directly of the love that had been lost. "Sometimes even I don't understand why Théodred loved me," she finally confessed in a small voice. "We were so very different. In age, in heritage, in knowledge." She sighed. "Even when I was a child we had a special connection. I have long failed to comprehend it." Her thoughts were wistful as she spoke.

"I fear I cannot give you the insight you seek," Éomer replied, studying her face. "I was not aware of how long you had been close."

"He brought me gifts when I was young," she said, smiling longingly, "and always treated me like a lady, for I was always frustrated at being treated like a child. Even though I _was_ a child," she added, causing Éomer to chuckle. "He was always laughing and smiling. Such a great foreign prince taking time to pay me particular attention… it made me feel very special."

Éomer seemed to ponder her words for a long time. "Théodred was not often around children," he said at last. "True, my sister and I grew up here in Edoras, but we were the only ones, and already the perils of our childhoods had robbed us of our innocence. In this both Théodred and I always grieved for Éowyn, for she seemed to feel it most keenly. I cannot venture to guess his thoughts, Lothíriel, but perhaps Théodred saw you as a manifestation of all he fought to protect—and wished to see in his own country. He always spoke with wonder of your lightness of heart."

"So he fell in love with a mere manifestation?" she asked appraisingly.

Éomer seemed embarrassed. "Nay, as time went on he loved you for yourself and yourself alone. This I know with complete certainty. I only meant to offer a possibility why he would have formed a partial fondness for a foreign girl-child."

Lothíriel smiled sadly and rose to her feet. "It is high time you rested, my lord. The evening has grown old since I came here, and I still have much to attend to before I retire."

"Lothíriel," said Éomer softly as she turned to leave.

She turned back around expectantly. "Yes, my lord?"

"I hope I have not discomforted you."

"No, my lord. Your observations are indeed insightful."

"You know I admire the sacrifices you've made since you came here, particularly your efforts these past few days. Truly you have proven a fine queen for our people."

"Thank you, my lord. Your appreciation does me much good." She gave a soft smile and blew out the candles—all but one. "Now get some rest."

Lothíriel moved about the rest of her evening duties automatically. When she finally settled herself into the bed she shared with Emeí—the other girl had already collapsed with exhaustion—she found she had some difficulty falling asleep. As she'd told Éomer, their discussion about Théodred had not offended her, but it had left her listless and melancholy. She lay awake a long time, stroking Froilas's soft coat where the dog lay on the floor beside the bed and thought about Théodred longingly. Tonight, she felt the ache of his loss more sharply than she had in a long time. The way Éomer spoke of his cousin's love for her—so assuredly and with no discomfiture—gave her inadvertent echoes of those thrilling feelings she'd felt when Théodred himself had first confessed it.

* * *

_Year 3016 of the Third Age_

As he had requested, Lothíriel played the harp for Théodred that evening, feeling more than simple sadness at his imminent departure for his homeland. Privately, she felt that her performance suffered, for she was distracted by the constant presence of his eyes upon her. She must not have sounded _too_ terrible, however, for more than one member of her uncle's court petitioned that she continue. Whenever she caught Théodred's eye, even after her playing had ended, she was amazed by a strange and mysterious burgeoning within them that did odd things to her stomach and made her blood race faster. She could not comprehend what it all meant.

She did not sleep well that night, but tossed to and fro, staring at the ceiling of her chamber and pondering over and over in her mind the paradoxical feelings roiling within her. How was it possible that one person could make her feel so warm and desperate at the same time? Did the prince have any idea what sort of effect he had upon her? Had she seemed to perceive a returned desire in his eyes because she so longingly wished for it?

At last, the birdsong and the steady paling of the light outside her window let her know that morning light was finding its way into Minas Tirith. She was swift to rise, still uneasy, still confused, longing for resolution in her mind. After dressing, Lothíriel donned her heavy cloak of royal blue and headed with single-minded purpose to the Citadel's walled gardens, hoping to clear her thoughts with exercise and the cold, invigorating chill of morning.

The chill was even greater than she'd anticipated, for it clung possessively to her hands and cheeks in the form of a heavy fog that had enshrouded the city in the night, one that the sun would undoubtedly dispel when it was high enough. For now, Lothíriel welcomed it, as it served to further ensure her solitude.

She was quite mad, she told herself fiercely, to cling to this unreasonable admiration of Théodred of Rohan. He could not possibly perceive her as a woman. The first time he'd ever seen her, she was in a tree! There were so many men in her own country who would be much more appropriate and sensible matches. She'd met and been courted by many in the past three years, yet the mere thought of this one foreign prince had been sufficient to keep her distant and impervious to any of their attentions.

The rational part of her argued that she had carried her infatuation so far that she'd made a paragon of him. Well, perhaps that was true, but it did not mean he wasn't deserving of a woman's love. Why had he never taken a wife? Had he ever loved anyone, and what sort of woman had she been? These were questions she burned to ask him, yet dreaded their answers, doubting she would match such a description. Not to mention that they would be highly inappropriate and embarrassing to ask.

"Lothíriel."

The voice was deep and quiet, and intruded upon her thoughts so unexpectedly that she let out a small cry of surprise, whirling around and squinting through the mist all around her. Even in the more confined space of this garden, it was difficult to see very far. Before she had a chance to reply—or imagine herself going crazy—a broad-shouldered shape congealed from the thick fog, a silhouette she would not have been able to mistake, especially not at this moment.

"Théodred," she breathed in surprise, then covered her mouth in shame, horrified at the ferventness that had slipped through.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you. I observed you crossing the courtyard."

He was fully dressed, and she noted that his clothes were still the fine garments he'd worn at supper the previous evening. She cast about desperately for something with which to occupy her paralyzed tongue. "Did you sleep well?" she finally fumbled.

"I did not sleep, Lothíriel." He paused awkwardly, ran a nervous hand through his loose golden hair, and began pacing, as if he was having trouble looking at her. "I have been walking the city walls all this long night, warring with my own mind, and the struggle has been wearying." He gave an ironic laugh. "I fear this will not make for an easy first day's journey."

He turned to face her, and stopped his pacing. Lothíriel felt as if there was magic at work, though the world outside this nature's shroud did not exist, as though some great, majestic power mesmerized the air between them. "I did not sleep, lady," he repeated lowly, "for I cannot get your face nor your song out of my mind."

Lothíriel swallowed, her heart beating very fast. She averted her gaze, and cast her eyes about frantically, at a loss for words. At last she closed her traitorous eyes altogether, and mustered enough courage to whisper, "I did not sleep well, either, my lord."

Her quick breathing was making her head feel light, and she could sense his nearness as the soft fall of his footsteps drew nearer. Then she felt strong fingers gentled with tenderness upon her chin, and she dared to open her eyes. Théodred stood before her, gazing at her wondrously. Lothíriel could only return the gaze, for she had been rendered utterly inert by foreign forces raging in her blood and body, and suddenly everything that she'd tried to tell herself was an obstacle between herself and this man seemed to matter not at all.

"Lothíriel," he breathed longingly, and her only coherent thought as he leaned down to kiss her was that surely, _surely_ she must be dreaming. What strange power had brought them to this place?

Théodred's hands were rough from labor and war as they touched first her face, then trailed down her shoulders, then rested on her back. The kiss was uncertain at first, tentative, until both man and woman finally let their uncertainties drop and surrendered to their feelings. Lothíriel soon reached up to encircle his neck with her arms, feeling almost brazen, but she found she didn't care. He was so strong, and the feel of his arms tightening about her body made her feel more warm and safe than she'd ever felt before. Her stomach and spine were dancing with shivering excitement. His beard teased her skin. She wondered if anyone else was alive in the world.

The kissed ended as slowly as it had begun, as though its participants were reluctant to belittle the moment with haste. Lothíriel stared at the prince for a few seconds, breathing hard, then closed her eyes and pressed her face into his shoulder, not wanting to shatter the enchantment of the moment with words. Théodred put a soft hand on the back of her hair, stroking it gently, and thus they stood for many long, immeasurable moments.

At last he released her, and she pulled away reluctantly. Théodred put both hands on her shoulders and gazed at her with earnestness. "Forgive me if you think me forward, my lady. Certainly you must find my desire highly inappropriate, but what I have come to feel for you…" he floundered, then began again. "Lothíriel, I could not master my struggle any longer."

"Any longer?" she repeated dumbly.

"Since last summer," he replied. "When you turned sixteen years of age."

"You gave me your aunt's harp," she said knowingly.

"Yes, and you played, and you sang, and I knew I had never seen anything so fair, nor could possibly find anything to rival you, not if I dwelt in the halls of the high elves themselves. I am certain you must find me old and withered, Lothíriel, but despite everything, I could not depart without telling you—"

Lothíriel reached up and stopped his words with a hand. Slowly, she said, "Yesterday, you asked me if my distraction was born from thoughts of a man. And so they were," she went on, "but not any man of Minas Tirith or of my countrymen. Now I may freely tell you, Théodred of Rohan, how long you have held my favor."

He seemed unable to find words to reply, only looked at her in astonishment before pulling her against his chest once more. She let out a small, contented sigh and closed her eyes, breathing his scent and his strength. "And now you must leave," she finally said sadly.

"Yes, I must," he agreed reluctantly. He pulled away and held her at arms length once more. "But I promise you, before the first winter snowfall I will come to you in your city. If you are still of a like mind, I will speak with your father."

Lothíriel gasped softly, a new, glowing warmth adding itself to her already very flushed body. "Of course I will still be of a like mind," she finally said softly. "And I will eagerly await your coming with all my heart."

"I cannot delay any longer," Théodred added. He grasped her hands within his own and kissed them fervently. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small golden ring, set with a dark red jewel, almost black, and pressed it into Lothíriel's hand. "In the meantime," he said, "this was my mother's. Now it shall be yours, for if the powers of this world allow me my desire, you shall take her place in my hall. I love you, Lothíriel. I always will."

* * *

Lothíriel sat up in her bed, then as quietly as possible, stepped over her sleeping dog to the trunk on the wall opposite, which held all her personal items. Tucked under several gowns was a medium-sized box for keepsakes— her first doll, a broken harp string from her first and favorite instrument, the brush and comb Théodred had given her, the beautiful jewelry her father had given her as a wedding gift, and the garnet ring of Rohan, among other things. She picked the ring out carefully, which was tricky in the darkness of the room, put everything else away, then sat quietly on the edge of the bed once more. She rubbed the smooth face of the jewel with a fingertip, remembering, until a solitary tear dropped from her eye onto the back of her hand. 

"I miss you so greatly," she whispered to the darkness. "And I am here, but you are not." Two more teardrops splattered her hand and wrist before she carefully slid the ring onto her finger. She had not at first wanted to wear it, but now, somehow, it felt appropriate.

_I will always love you in return._ It was her last thought before she surrendered to sleep.

* * *

**Replies:**

**smor**- They will talk about Wormtongue, but only at a specific time I have yet to reach. Mwuahaha. **katemary77**- Actually, my hope is that it will be difficult to pinpoint a turning point for these two. I'm trying to make it so gradual it's imperceptible (well, on Lothíriel's part). I hope I am succeeding.

**jadeddiva**- Thanks!

**Tracey**- Yes, poor man. Éomer's perspective, as you say, on the leather element was my laziness going for a generalized 'out.' I would need to do further research into specific technique for embossing, etc. aaaaand… yeah, didn't feel like doing that. :-P

**Sadie Elfgirl**- As I believe I advised another reader, the formal language isn't that difficult to grasp if you watch/ read enough Jane Austen. I think Lothíriel did a marvelous job caring for him as well.

**lsoa**- Don't you just love the word fortnight? ;-)

**Lady ot Rings**- How mysterious are the ways of a man with a maid, eh? LOL Yes, and how admirable of Éomer to accept Lothíriel's assumption of authority so gracefully. ;-)

**Peachy Papayas**- LOL- Reader replies are the best way I know to show appreciation for all my superb readers over the year. I've earned many a friend through them. :-)

**Faerchithiel**- That'd be interesting. I'd like to see what you would do with such a story. Thanks for your reply.

**dripplip**- Thank you. Hope you enjoyed the update.

**fsb567**- Well, thanks! It was nice to receive your review.

**Blue Eyes at Night**- That one seems to be quite popular so far, yes. LOL

**Eokat**- Things have progressed a little, I think? How about you? ;-)

**Lirima Tindomiel**- LOL- your two Lothíriel extremes there made me laugh. Myself, I get most frustrated with Miss Spoiled Nineties Teenager Firebrand Attitude.

**Estel la Roduese**- Thank you. I'm doing my best!

**wondereye**- I think you probably liked this chapter's flashback. LOL

**Iluvien**- Your gushing makes me blush, my friend. LOL I'm honored. And may I say I greatly enjoyed reading your bio, particularly the line about 'being in good company.' Excellent and encouraging sentiment!

**Lometari**- I only hope the poor kicked horselord scenario is realistic. He must have been distracted. Perhaps he was thinking of Lothíriel, eh? ;-)

* * *

**A/N:**- I know you are all probably shocked at the speed with which I produced this update. To be perfectly honest, I was myself. I can attribute it to a growing sense of dissatisfaction with the previous chapter. 

This middle part of the story, as it progresses, has always been very vague in my mind, and I find that without a clear picture of where I am taking it, it is more difficult to maintain an even tone. I don't want it to drag the story down, so I am attempting to make it more of a series of highlights rather than detailing each and every conversation Éomer and Lothíriel have, etc.

Writing chapter ten felt like pulling eyeteeth (does anybody know the exact origin of that phrase, btw?), and although I liked parts of it, I feel that other parts of it are uninspired, and as a whole it could be stronger. But that's what rewrites are for. Haha. At any rate, I put on the ol' research cap again and started reading notes on the wonderfully rich and very canon history Tolkien gave us to play with, and wrote this chapter based off the inspiration I found in the process.

Now that I've bored you with my author's problems, I hope you remember enough of the chapter itself to leave me one of those reviews I adore so much!

Saché


	12. Visitors

**Chapter Twelve** – _Visitors_

By the time Lothíriel and the physician allowed Éomer freedom within his own hall, the final days of August were upon them. The fields were thick and golden under the heat of the sun, and the whole country seemed to anticipate the forthcoming harvest with grateful enthusiasm.

On the first day Éomer resumed court, the assembly was interrupted by the entrance of Éothain, who drew near the dais with an eager smile. He gave a brief bow, and then addressed Éomer's expectant face. "Two riders approach from the north, my lord. Borne on a single steed." His grin widened. "It is Master Gimli, my lord, and the elven prince with him."

Éomer was immediately on his feet. "These are glad tidings indeed, Éothain. Come, let us greet them," he called loudly, looking around the hall, an unspoken signal that the affairs of court were adjourned for the day. Many followed Éomer out the doors to observe the approach of their famous guests. This was done more slowly than he might normally have accomplished, but his ribs were still slightly tender with healing.

By this time, the dwarf and the elf had nearly reached the gates of Edoras, riding, as ever, together upon the back of faithful Arod. For a moment, Éomer cast his mind back to those fateful, whirlwind weeks of war and unexpected encounters, and the day he'd first met Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. What a blessing the three strangely-clad foreigners had proven to be, appearing out of nowhere against all hope!

"They will, perhaps, have news of my lady Éowyn," said Lothíriel quietly at his side, looking over with a smile.

Éomer nodded. "Aye, 'tis possible. Though we know not for certain where their recent travels have taken them."

Legolas waved a brief greeting as Arod reached foot of the Golden Hall, then dismounted as lithely as any son of Rohan. He handed the reins to a waiting rider, and everyone did their best to politely ignore Gimli's slightly less graceful dismount, though Éomer noted that his skills had uncommonly improved in the last year. Still, he was probably the only person who detected Lothíriel's small, subdued chuckle beside him. He met her eyes briefly, and they shared an amused smile.

Gimli was still brushing dust from his armor in a very pompous manner when Legolas bowed with all the poise of his race. "Hail, Éomer, son of Éomund, King of the Riddermark," he said formally.

The dwarf was not so polite. He looked up sharply. "Éomer, have you not heard of roads in Rohan?"

"We have a few, Master Gimli," Éomer replied, "but they are not of dwarvish making, so I wager they would not be to your liking."

Gimli's reply was a gruff _hmpph_. "Perhaps that can be remedied," he conceded. His bright black eyes twinkled behind the shadow of his beard and helmet.

The two friends climbed the short staircase to join the royals atop. Lothíriel stepped forward and curtseyed deeply and gracefully. "Welcome once more to Edoras, my lords," she said, smiling. "Our hall is always honored by your presence."

"The queen of Rohan is as fair as the flowers of morning," Legolas replied, bowing deeply once more. When he rose, he added, "We bring greetings, lady, of your family." He looked at Éomer. "And of yours as well, Éomer."

"We also come with a request," Gimli added. "Or rather, _I_ do."

"Of what nature is this request?" Éomer asked, as the party turned to head indoors.

"All in good time, laddie."

Lothíriel did not at first linger much in conversation, instead hustling off to supervise the ordering of a special banquet for their guests, while Éomer whiled away the afternoon in deep conversation with his two friends, first in the hall and later on a tour about Edoras in order to keep out of Lothíriel's way as she and the other ladies made their preparations. Their talk ranged from reminisces of the past, to the sharing of news, to mutual hopes and plans for the future. Though they hadn't seen her for at least a month, Legolas and Gimli assured Éomer that Éowyn was well and happy. 

"I don't know that I've ever seen anyone so lovesick as Faramir," Gimli confessed. He paused, thinking hard, then added, "Well, Aragorn, maybe, but with him there's not the insufferable _newness_."

Remembering Éowyn and Faramir at their wedding, Éomer privately agreed.

The sun was making its downward journey when supper was served— a table laden with generous presentations of pork and beef, savory sauces, and the best-aged ale. After Gimli and Legolas and raised a glass to honor her table, Lothíriel finally took the chance to inquire after her family, whereupon they brought forth another surprise—letters. Éomer wasn't quite sure how many they handed his wife, but there were three for him, as well. One each from Faramir and Éowyn, and one from Aragorn.

Gimli expressed to Éomer his request—permission to explore thoroughly and deeply the caves of Helm's Deep. "My kinsmen would be highly interested in such an untapped treasure trove," he informed Éomer with eager eyes. We could fashion it into realm of greatness, a credit and landmark of Rohan. It may even be possible to construct a passage through the mountain, a new road to the south."

"That would be greatly beneficial indeed, Master Gimli," remarked Éomer, raising his eyebrows appreciatively. He looked at Lothíriel. "A swifter route to Dol Amroth."

She smiled. "A thing greatly to be desired, Sire."

"Well, I cannot make any promises, of course," Gimli said, backing down slightly from his enthusiasm with a nervous laugh. "But the princeling here has a promise to fulfill. I shall not let him shirk it. Especially not as I have held up my end of the bargain."

"Which would be a mightily grievous affair," Éomer agreed. "But certainly you have my permission. If nothing else, I hope your exploration will be to your enjoyment. Please advise me of any supplies or resources of Rohan you may require in your quest."

"Some strong rope, a steady torch, and a sharp pickax, Éomer. Those are the only tools of a true prospector."

"My only request in return," Éomer said, "is your discretion. If you should find something of great value, I would not have it cause a sensation amongst he people of Rohan before I have a chance to decide how to proceed."

"Not to mention other realms around," Lothíriel added quietly. Éomer did not look at her, but nodded with knowing agreement.

The after-dinner hour was filled with song and tale, both from host and guest. Lothíriel, of course, sang for the company, as did Legolas. As the evening grew more boisterous, Gimli told a legend of his homeland that had all Éomer's men laughing liberally, and by the end of the night, the story of Éomer's recent indisposition was also told, much exaggerated, of course, and seemed to Gimli even funnier than all the rest. 

Lothíriel remained awake longer than her ladies, but it wasn't long after that she too retired, more of a desire to read her letters than weariness, Éomer knew, but she was also certainly very tired after such an exciting day. He found himself also tiring, but obligation did not permit him to pursue his bed as politely as his wife. 

At length, Legolas seemed to perceive the king's need for rest. He pointed it out and suggested they all go to bed, which they did—all the while Gimli continuing to delightfully tease Éomer about his recent injuries.

It felt like Éomer had just closed his eyes when he was awaken by the low, urgent voice of Legolas. "One of the village homes is on fire," the elf said urgently, and left as quietly as he'd undoubtedly entered.

In an instant, Éomer was very much awake, thanking the gods that Legolas had been here, for he knew the elf rarely required sleep. He was not surprised to see Lothíriel in the corridor as he rushed out of the room, pulling a shirt on over his head as he went.

"What is wrong?" she asked urgently. "Legolas told me I needed to awaken." Behind her, Emeí stood likewise, gazing at Éomer fearfully.

"Fire," he replied grimly, "in the village. We must hurry. Prevent it from spreading."

Lothíriel's eyes widened. She turned to Emeí. "Awaken Gaerwyn," she instructed. "We need to gather bandages and poultices for burns." The girl nodded and hurried off. 

"I must raise Éothain," Éomer said urgently.

Lothíriel nodded, but held out a hand on his arm to pause him. "Be careful, Éomer," she entreated softly, concern in her eyes. Then she released him.

By the time Éomer reached the site of the fire—several of his men on his heels— much had already been accomplished. Two trains of villagers were hard at work getting water not only to the blazing house, but also frantically wetting down the thatch and walls of its nearest neighbors. 

Suddenly, Gimli was at his side, seeming to melt out of the shadows and writhing half-light cast by the red and yellow flames. "Candle left too close to the curtains," he explained. "Little lass didn't trim it properly, the poor tyke." He pointed. Éomer saw a woman and three trembling children standing to the side, staring mournfully at their burning home. The smaller of the two girls—she couldn't have been more than six summers— had a face so tear-stained that it glistened, even at this distance.

"Delfas," Éomer called to one of his men, "gather whatever livestock survived. House them in our stables for tonight, then hurry back."

"Yes, my lord."

Éomer approached the small family. "Éomer King," said the woman bravely, nodding her head. It was clear that her attention was much more filled with concern for her house than of the presence of her sovereign. "My husband works with the others," she explained. As she spoke, the infant in her arms—perhaps nearing two years of age— began coughing, his dark eyes watering. The mother's face looked pained.

"Go to the hall," Éomer ordered kindly. "The queen will attend you. You and your family will stay with us for the night. Go quickly," he added, when the poor, frightened woman only stared back, dumbfounded. "We will finish here."

It was some time later before the blaze was finally conquered, and the tired, bedraggled villagers retreated back to their homes for food and rest. Éomer commanded those most badly burned up the hill to Lothíriel and Gaerwyn, and then ordered a day of rest the following morn, knowing some of his people took far too much pride in their farming for their own health. Still, despite the tragedy, there was a feeling of satisfaction. None of the neighboring buildings had been lost, not even the first family's stable or shed. 

Lothíriel and the ladies attended burns for some time longer, while Éomer spoke with the father of the house, assuring him they would help him restore his losses, and comforting his grief. When he finally sent the man to bed— to a pallet in the solar with the rest of his family, Lothíriel had at last finished.

She approached him wearily, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "We've nearly depleted our herbs used in treating burns," she said, "but thankfully there was enough. I shall have to see the stock is replenished soon."

"What of the family?"

"The two young girls fell asleep quickly, and have been so ever since." There was a worried look in her eyes.

"What is it?"

"The boy…" she said hesitantly. "His cough has not subsided. It has grown worse, and I do not like the sound of it. According to his mother, he was most affected by the fumes and smoke. And he is so small, Éomer, I don't—" she swallowed, and raised her eyes to him. "I don't know what to do for him. Neither does Gaerwyn. I don't think that he'll—"

Not sure what to say, Éomer hesitantly embraced her. He could sense her exhaustion, which no doubt worsened and intensified her despair. It had been a hard night. He could only sense her tears as she wept a moment, for she made no sound, and a moment later he pulled away, taking her hands between his. "Thank you for efforts," he said softly. "I am very grateful to have such a one as you, as you know I've told you."

As he pulled his hand away, his fingers brushed the ring she wore and he looked at it for a moment. It had been a couple of weeks now since chosen to wear it— the ring worn by Rohan's queen. It was strange, though, as he hadn't been the one to give it to her. He'd thought it lost—many things _had_ been in the dark time that Wormtongue held subtle dominion over Edoras. It was good to know this was not the case, but he was reluctant to ask her why she'd chosen only now to wear it.

"Get some rest," he said softly. "Go."

He watched her depart, concerned. The night seemed uncommonly still now. Things had settled down and the subsequent silence was very loud.

"You love her very much."

Éomer was proud of himself for not jumping. "Don't you know it's rude to sneak up on a man in his own house?" he asked without turning around.

"My apologies," Legolas replied, coming from behind to stand beside him. He too looked in the direction Lothíriel had departed. 

"And yes," Éomer said. "I do love her. I have for some time."

"Have patience, my friend," Legolas said sagely. He turned his head and gazed at Éomer, his eyes alight with the timeless knowledge of his kindred. "But one thing remains for her healing to be complete. Something she doesn't even realize she needs."

"And how is that supposed to help me exercise patience?"

Legolas cocked his head. "You will be the one to help her find it. It will not be long."

Éomer did not ask for any further insight into these cryptic words. He half suspected Legolas would not have known, anyway.

* * *

**Replies:**

**Estel la Roduese**- Honestly, I've always thought canon Éomer was, I dunno… tougher than mine, but thank you all the same -)

**Iluvien**- I actually enjoy reading bios, particularly of people who leave me reviews. LOL You'd think I'd make an effort to make mine a little more interesting as a result, but… go figure. And good gracious, don't apologize for a non multi-chapter review. I know all too well that life is busy enough. I'm just glad your reviewing the updates. And _typing_ is easy. Writing… somewhat trickier. ;-)

**lsoa**- well, my research came from internet sources of _other_ people's hard Tolkien-collecting work, but I trust it was for a good cause. LOL

**Wondereye**- Patience. You will see. -)

**ginny**- He'll kiss her eventually, I promise.

**katemary77**- Moving on… harder said than done, I guess. Especially for Lothíriel, apparently. Still, it's gotta happen some time!

**Eokat**- sometimes they seem far apart, yes, but if you think about it, that happens in marriages anyway, where the participants have _already_ acknowledged their feelings. Or so I have observed since I'm not married. Lol -P

**smor**- Hmmn. Butterflies, you say? ;-)

**Vera of the Woods**- Yes, one would never accuse this story of rushing. In fact, I do think a person or two has complained on that end… ah well. Thank you so much for your lovely review, and don't worry, flattery is in no way dangerous to me. Um… (hides crossed fingers behind back). Hope you stick around!

**Peachy Papayas**- Yeah, FF.N wasn't being our friend for the last update. Everything was delayed. Glad you found your way, though, nonetheless.

**Katya**- (I liked the early morning mist very much, myself ;-)) I hope Éomer's thoughts about Lothíriel's ring were to your satisfaction.

**Tracey**- Gah! I want to see Finding Neverland so badly! Alas, I missed it in theaters. Fortunately, the video release isn't very far off (I have a friend who works in a video store). And wow, I'm on a list with Tolkien? Well, that can't be anything but cool. Thanks! And yah, Lothíriel's one lucky babe, isn't she. I kind of wish I was her, too. LOL

**Blue Eyes at Night**- He did notice and it does give him pause, as you can see from the preceding update.

**Faerchithiel**- Writer of Rohan! I love it! LOL Thanks for the review!

**Lirima Tindomiel**- Ah yes, I'm rather fond of kissing scenes myself, which I suppose is rather strange as I have _no_ RL experience to draw on, but there you have it. LoL

**Aikaze**- (checks very deep cyber-pockets) I actually had what I call "Beru" hankies made from when I wrote a story about Beru Whitesun at the JC boards. Hmmn, maybe I should post it here, even though it's some of my earliest work and therefore overkill in the sap dept., however it seemed like every other post made someone _cry_. So by the end we all had Beru hankies. (hands) I have a few left over. There you go. ;-)

**Jen**- Thanks! Don't know about soon, but I did my best!

**Alora**- Well, it's not every day a girl gets complimented for excellence in non-elf fanfic. Thank you! And wow, your little phrase about anticipation. Love it. You should embroider it on something. ;-)

**laurel**- Lothíriel truly is doing her best, I promise. It may be difficult for _us_ to understand, but remember she did tell Éomer this might be the case at the outset. He knew what he might be getting into. Also, it isn't true to say that Théodred didn't really know her. They had many times of getting to know one another over the years that haven't been 'on screen' so to speak. However, your point about people sometimes falling in love with the idea of love also has merit. I actually just got over a case of it myself. Don't worry, I'm not dragging out the ending deliberately. I hope you stick it out despite your frustration!

**Raider-K**- I'm honored to be added to your C2. Thank you! Also, thank you for your lovely compliments. 'Enchanting' is a word I've enjoyed applying to my story since your review. -)

**Jazzcat**- To answer your question: 'this thing' is about two thirds of the way finished, now, or so I guess. This middle part was very unclear to me, but now that I've struggled through it, the ending should come much faster, as it has always been extremely clear. Also, your reassurances about Éomer's being kicked by a horse are excessively relieving to me. Loved both your reviews; thank you _so_ much!

**esawian**- Sorry about the wait!

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry, sorry, _sorry_ about the delay, folks. I was stuck, stuck, stuck. That's all it boils down to. I had absolutely no idea how to map my way from the ending of chapter eleven to the beginning of the final segment. So yeah. Things should go a lot more smoothly (and by translation a lot less waiting time for you) from now on.

Hope it was worth the wait!

Saché 


	13. Tension

**Chapter Thirteen** – _Tension_

Harvest. In the great year of plenty, which touched all lands in Middle Earth, it was a word more welcome than ever before. No child of Rohan would be forced this winter to endure the cruel cramp of hunger. Crib, cradle, and barn were full to bursting with the golden riches – more precious than the finest gems or silver – of wheat, barley, and warm thankfulness.

Lothíriel had experienced her share of festivals—for many years she had planned and supervised the high feasts and celebrations held in her father's court— but never had she known a celebration quite like this. All of Edoras milled about in a steady stream of jovial industry— Lothíriel's first taste of the annual tradition called thatching day.

Thatching, she had learned, did not need to be done every year. A tightly thatched roof, properly done, would last several years before needing replaced. As such, only a fraction of the homes in Edoras needed replaced or mended each harvest, and the entire city—from the king to the lowliest shoemaker—turned out to lend a hand.

Lothíriel's hands had finally begun to toughen since summer's end, but today they were being tested in a whole new way. It was late morning, already quite warm for early October, and she had been twisting and tying long straw into bundles – called yealms— for several hours. These were then delivered to the men on the rooftops to be added in layers to the thatch work already in place. Her shoulders ached a little bit, but not as much as they would have done a few months ago. Even had they been, she wouldn't have been of a spirit to complain. Despite that everyone was hard at work, there wasn't a dismal face to be seen.

Lothíriel sat at the head of a long table along one of the village streets, constructed by joining end to end all the kitchen tables from a dozen homes. To her right was Mistress Mavaen and her two small daughters, whose home had been lost in the fire all those weeks ago. Already a new structure had been built in its place, still smelling of freshly-hewn timber. Lothíriel had marveled at the speed of its assembly. It would be the first to be thatched today.

Lothíriel watched Mistress Mavaen out of the corner of her eye. The lady worked mostly in silence, occasionally offering a quiet word of advice to her daughters. The elder helped with the yealming. The younger, who wasn't nearly old or strong enough yet, was trying to put a doll's cap on a half-grown kitten. Froilas, sitting nearby, was watching the little creature warily, as if daring it to leave the safety of its captor.

Despite the support of the community and the rebuilding of her home, nothing but time would be able to ease the heartache that caused Mistress Mavaen's spirit of sadness. Her young son had not survived the effects of being trapped in the smoke for so long, though Lothíriel had the best healers in Edoras fighting valiantly for his life for three days. Lothíriel hadn't known many children to die in her lifetime, at least not so young and unexpected. She imagined it must cause a pain equally as raw as that she'd suffered at the loss of Théodred. Yet she could also see Mistress Mavaen's strength. She had not withdrawn upon herself, as Lothíriel had done. Though her grief was still plain to the world, she threw herself back into her life as passionately as Lothíriel was sure she ever had, not neglecting her other children or her husband.

She opened herself up to the possibility of pain again with no sign of fear. Lothíriel recognized something in this that she did not yet understand.

Gaerwyn, two places to Lothíriel's right looked up at the position of the sun. "Soon it will be time to begin preparing for midday," she observed.

As she spoke, Emeí returned, laden with a fresh batch of long straw, which she tossed lightly onto the middle of the table where the women worked. "They are making good progress with your house, Mistress Mavaen," she said cheerfully. "Halfway to the ridge on both sides. Captain Éothain was scolding the king for walking to recklessly on the beam. It was very funny."

"Éothain is right," Gaerwyn said, frowning. She craned her neck back towards the street. "The king is foolish to endanger his life so." She looked back at Lothíriel disapprovingly, as if expecting her to take action.

"You think iI/i could stop him?" Lothíriel said, smiling, causing the other ladies to laugh. Even Mistress Mavaen smiled slightly. "If he is determined to show off…" she began, then shrugged. Truthfully, Gaerwyn was probably right, but a rider of Rohan was nothing without a fine sense of balance. She didn't really think Éomer would endanger his life beyond what was in keeping with climbing around on roofs to begin with.

At length, the women broke off their work to prepare dinner. Smoked fish from the river, bread, and cheese made for lighter fare on such a warm day, though already a great spit was being prepared for the oxen that had been slaughtered for tonight's feasting. There would be music and dancing, and Lothíriel was looking forward to it. She had not danced in what felt like ages, and Emeí had been teaching her as many of the local dances as she possibly could.

"You spoil that beast."

Lothíriel looked up from slipping Froilas a piece of fish under the table to see Éomer taking his place beside her, his eyes amused. "Perhaps," she agreed, laughing. "But she is not conceited by it." She scratched the hound affectionately around the ears and then commanded. "Go play. Go!" At her command, Froilas dashed off, barking, and Éomer laughed.

"At least she is obedient."

"Spoiled or well-behaved, my lord. Which shall it be?"

"It seems it is possible to achieve both at once."

"My spies tell me your antics today endangered the throne of Rohan."

"You may tell Emeí that the king of the Riddermark does not back down from a challenge."

Lothíriel laughed heartily. "In that case, how could I expect otherwise? Your pride will be your death."

It was strange to see Éomer in these surroundings. Devoid of the trappings of kingship, working alongside his men in simplicity and common labor. That afternoon, when it was Lothíriel's turn to fetch straw, she paused a while to watch him, sweating under the sun, his boisterous laugh ringing down from the eaves, his strong shoulders straining with hammer and rod. He was a remarkable man, Éomer of Rohan. He had borne his unexpected mantle with extraordinary balance indeed.

Later, they led off the dancing together, silent and solemn at first, but soon they were joined by the others and the night became as jovial as had been the day. Lothíriel felt almost giddy, caught up in the joy and relief of her new people and this most welcome of days. Everything was done and prepared for the winter. Now was the time to rest.

Éomer was a fine dancer when he wasn't toasting spilling tankards of ale with his men to rousing folk songs, which was often. He wasn't the most skilled partner she'd ever known— that prize actually went to Faramir, but she would never tell— but his merriment more than compensated.

Lothíriel was exhausted at the end of the night, but satisfied. Gaerwyn and Eothain disappeared before they ever made it back to the Golden Hall, and Éomer joked that they should send a search party. Lothíriel laughed and advised against it as she helped a sleepy Emeí up the hill. She dragged the girl all the way to the queen's chambers, nudged her into bed, and then returned to bid the king goodnight.

She was surprised to find him alert and active in the hall, alone, stirring about the table. He looked up as if expecting her. "Come," he beckoned, holding out a chair. "Sit." There was a bowl and some cloths on the tabletop.

Curious, Lothíriel did as she was bid. Her questions stirred within her but somehow died on her lips. Éomer took a chair opposite her and reached for her hand. "I noticed your hands were in a very poor condition as we danced," he said quietly. "Did you think to leave them thus?" He dipped a cloth in the basin and began washing her palm.

"How do you—?" Lothíriel began, but once again lost her words.

He smiled, eyes twinkling. "You are not the only one who knows remedies, my lady," he explained. "Granted, I don't know many, but I know enough to sooth my queen's hands."

Lothíriel did not reply, but watched him work, strangely sober and transfixed. The frequency of his rough fingertips brushing hers so tenderly was becoming disconcerting. He bathed and dried her hands, rubbed them with salve, and bound them neatly in clean linen. When he finished, he stood her to her feet. Lothíriel only stared back.

"There," he said, smiling kindly. "They will heal nicely, I wager, though I say it myself."

"Thank you," she said in a voice almost inaudible.

There was a strange and heavy silence. Instinct told her what was about to happen as Éomer's eyes carefully searched her face, but she was too paralyzed to do anything about it. She was so overcome by the moment that she wasn't even certain she wanted to.

The kiss was hesitant, but perfect. Lothíriel overcame her paralysis long enough to close her eyes. She did not return the gesture—she was too afraid at first— but she could not stop him. She was in many ways unwilling. He was so incredibly good to her. She did not deserve him. 

A single tear spilled from her eye and trailed down her cheek. Lothíriel wasn't entirely sure why. But suddenly she was very, very afraid. 

_Théodred…_

Gasping softly, Lothíriel pulled away from Éomer and swallowed.

Immediately, she regretted it. His expression became one of such pain that it ripped her gut into a thousand shreds. He took three steps back, and turned around, his shoulders hard and taught with anger and frustration, his hands on his hips. There was an eternity's pause of unendurable tension. Lothíriel's mind raced frantically, trying to think of some explanation, some apology, but she could only stare.

Finally, Éomer spoke. His words were hard, though he did not shout. "You are not the only one who loved my cousin," he said. He did not look at her. "You are not the only one who grieved for him."

Without another word, he stormed away.

All the day's joy was robbed in a moment. Lothíriel wept all through the night, full of self-loathing at her selfishness. He was right. She had to find some way to put this behind her. It had been well over a year now. How could she learn to be like Mistress Mavaen? She tried and tried to think of words to try and explain herself to him, to make up for her recalcitrance, but the only thing she was finally able to resolve was to visit him first thing in the morning and see what came of the moment.

As it turned out, she was not given the chance. A brisk knock on her chamber door sounded just before dawn. Gesturing to Emeí to remain abed, Lothíriel donned her robe, and went to answer, grateful for the gift of activity, however brief it would prove.

Éomer stood without. Lothíriel's eyes widened, stomach lurching. She opened her mouth to try and speak, but he held up a hand. "No. I came to apologize. I broke my promise."

"My lord, I—"

"Prepare yourself for a journey," he continued stiffly, cutting her off. "We will be gone for several days. Dress warmly. It will be cold at night."

"My lord?"

"There is something you must see. Something I ought to have shown you a long time ago."

* * *

**Replies:**

**Blue Eyes at Night**- Yes! What a great quote to apply to silly Legolas. I did not remember this directly, but I think I did subconsciously. Gandalf, too, with his speaking in riddles. ;-) I don't think it ever said directly that Gimli would have asked Éomer's permission to explore the caves, but it makes sense. And yes, cryptic is a fabulous word. LOL

**Jazzcat**- You wrote 29 chapters and resisted posting! Wow, that's an achievement. I'm such a limelight hog. I can never wait for feedback. LOL Legolas was fun to play around with in that chapter. I don't mind seeing him written as the romantic hero (if it's well done) but I think he likes to be just a plain ol' aloof elf once in awhile, too. ;-)

**Eokat**- Not long indeed. You shall see. ;-)

**Aria Fox**- I found your review to be interesting and ironic, especially the timing. Your thoughts about Éomer snapping a little bit were very choicely put, and I had the scenario for this chapter already planned out at the time, so… a gold star for you! I hope you liked the results.

**Peachy Papayas** - Internet cooperating better yet? Thanks for the review. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Linnath**- Thank you! This wait was long, too, I know. Sorry about that.

**Lady ot Rings**- Well, I can tell you that Éomer has figured it out now, although I'm uncertain as to whether he's put it together with Legolas's words. **JelloGAL**- She's got the ol' maternal instinct in spades, Lothíriel. You think she'd get a clue that she could do with some kids of her own. ;-)

**kati58**- Hmmn. Possibly… _this_ cliffhanger? (hides) LOL

**smor**- Hey, Éomer _should_ be proud. (cringe) Sorry for the delay.

**Vera of the Woods**- Gah, I can't take credit for the fire idea, actually. I was desperate for a plot device for that chapter, so I stole one from the book this story is named after. LOL. I agree, I always thought their marriage had more to do with politics than love, also, but I also know how romantic Tolkien was so naturally the marriage would _become_ an alliance of love. ;-) And you're welcome for answering your review. It's actually quite fun for me!

**KaterineKasdorf**- Thanks for the explanation of eyeteeth. It makes a lot of sense, actually. Can't believe I didn't think of it. LOL And _deliciously_ wonderful, eh? Well… cool!

**Sadie** - Eh… Lothíriel has issues. We should smack her around a bit. ;-)

**Terreis**- Patience, patience. Well, Éomer lost his patience a little bit. I was proud of him. She needs _something_ to snap her out of it. ;-) Hey, did you see that they posted grown-up pictures of my muse? Looks like I picked a good'un. LOL

**Faerchithiel**- Well, I must say, that was certainly one of the most interesting reviews I ever received. However, I sneezed all over my monitor the other day, so I find it even funnier now. LOL

**Ramarama**- Many of us are in agreement with you in frustration with Lothíriel. But she's slowly coming around, I think. Hope the French is going okay!

**Tracey**- Hey, don't be fooled. I've gone through my share of blatant writing (I refuse to look at my first fanfic anymore. It makes me ill. LOL)! And I was mightily pleased with Legolas's role in that chapter. He was very fun to play with.

**Alora**- I believe I read every book in the series except the very last one. I think the first was always my favorite, though. I've read it several times, including a recent re-read to get inspiration for this story. I saw the first hallmark movie.

**WONDEREYE**- I guess it does seem strange that she's wearing the ring now and she wasn't before. I honestly don't totally understand it myself, so… don't ask me. ;-) As for flashbacks, there are two more, I believe, but in very specific places in the story. The first should be in the next chapter.

understand it myself, so… don't ask me. ;-) As for flashbacks, there are two more, I believe, but in very specific places in the story. The first should be in the next chapter.

**Estel la Rodeuse**- This one was short too, but moved things along, I think. Hope you enjoyed!

**Nexstar**- Welcome! I'm glad you liked Amelia. I'm very fond of that story. I'm actually in the middle of a thorough rewrite of it right now. And I don't mind being on your C2. Thanks for the compliment!

**MexicanDevil-RoadCrew**- Thank you! Hope the wait wasn't too bad for you.

CapriceAnnHedican-Kocur- More flashbacks forthcoming, I promise!

**Elwen of Lorien**- Long delay, I know. Welcome and thanks for reviewing. Updates come slowly, but I promise they still come. ;-)

**K**- Thanks! I appreciate the compliment. Hope you enjoy the rest of the story as much!

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah, okay, um… (hides). No excuse this time, really. Finally obtained the means to make fanvids and kind of went overboard. I made five and each one takes awhile. As such, all thoughts of writing went out the door for awhile.

In any case, hope the wait was worth it. Anybody want to guess where they're going:-D

Cheers!

Saché 


	14. Shadow of the Past

**Chapter Fourteen** – _Shadow of the Past_

_Year 3016 of the Third Age_

Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, was astonished in late September to receive as his guest Prince Théodred of Rohan, but more so when the intent behind the prince's visit was disclosed.

"It is my joy and honor—" he began, raising a glass and addressing his court at banquet that evening, "— my very _unexpected_ honor—" he added, looking at Lothíriel amusedly, causing everyone to laugh, "—to give my blessing to this union. May it be fruitful and prosperous, full of long love and joy. To Dol Amroth and to Rohan!" His cry was echoed by the court, and Lothíriel's smile was almost as bright as the light in her eyes.

"It is good to have something to celebrate," Imrahil continued privately after everyone had taken their seats and the court was distracted by the banquet. "We have had precious little but dark news from all parts of the world of late." He smiled fondly at Lothíriel. "Though it will be heartache to send you so far away, daughter." He looked at Théodred. "When mean you to marry, my lord? Though I mean to have some say in the matter," he added with a chuckle.

Théodred was less mirthful. "Alas," he said rather wistfully, "I fear our marriage may not take place for some time," he said, looking at Lothíriel with sadness.

Lothíriel returned the gaze, puzzled. "My lord?" she queried. She had assumed, with her father's blessing, that the wedding would take place within the year, likely next summer. At least she had been planning as much in her own mind.

Théodred's eyes alternated between her and her father as he spoke. "The darkness you have spoken of, Imrahil, has touched Rohan in very evil ways. I would rest much easier if Lothíriel were kept safely in Dol Amroth until the danger has passed."

At once Lothíriel sensed the formation of a battle line, with the two men she loved most in the world allied against her on the opposing side. "And how long might that be?" she asked carefully.

The men exchanged grave expressions. "I do not know," Théodred confessed. "It may be for some years."

"Years?" she echoed, perhaps too quickly, but there was no use hiding her surprise at his casual use of the word.

"Daughter," Imrahil interjected, "if the prince thinks the situation too dangerous in his own country, perhaps it is best if you—"

"Father," she began in gentle protest, "danger will always be a reality of life. I would not let this evil triumph over us by denying us our happiness for so indefinite a time."

"There will be war, Lothíriel," Théodred argued, his voice rising ever so slightly, but Lothíriel's own ire was beginning to be piqued.

"There will be war _everywhere_," she challenged, catching the two men in her gaze. By now, she could sense the eyes of her brothers and Adlóriel upon them, quietly and surreptitiously. "You think I am ignorant of this?"

"But Dol Amroth is far safer than any city in Gondor. This you know," Imrahil said.

"And there are other dangers," Théodred continued. "I would not bring you to Edoras now, were all the armies of men on my heels."

"And am I only to be queen of Rohan in times of ease?"

"What I speak of is of a singular, sinister sort."

"But why will you not tell me what it is?" Lothíriel asked. Though she did not shout, the hardness of her voice had by now caught the attention of nearly the whole room.

"Daughter—" her father tried to begin again.

"No," she cut him short. She took a quick, frustrated breath and rose as calmly as her agitated state would allow. "Pardon me, father. I require some air, if you please. And if my opinion matters not in this conversation—" she began, but did not finish. A moment later, she turned and walked stiffly out of the room, shoulders tense.

Lothíriel knew from pride and instinct that Théodred would follow. The evening breeze carried the tang of salt, and whipped her skirts more forcefully than she'd expected. A storm was coming, and the wind did nothing to sooth or lessen her frustration.

She did not weep, not even in anger. To do so would have been both cowardly and indolent, and she'd always despised women who used tears to manipulate men. Her mother had taught her as much.

"Lothíriel."

She turned, eyes accusing. He'd practically come on her heels. "You said that in Rohan you do not believe in protecting a woman through ignorance," she said. "_You_ said that, Théodred."

"I did," he confessed.

"Then why will you not tell me!" she implored, raising her voice to be heard over a sudden gust of wind.

"A man's ideals become less clear when it comes to those he loves most," Théodred said, as quietly as their surroundings would allow. Lothíriel was strangely pleased that he did not bother denying his hypocrisy. 

She turned to look out over the bay. The horizon could not be seen, only a massive, roiling pitch of grey. "I do not want to wait forever to marry you, Théodred. I will go mad with the uncertainty."

He stepped near. She could feel his breath atop her hair. "Then I will marry you here, and now, if that is what you wish. If only you will stay here where it is safe."

Lothíriel paused a long time, still and frozen, continuing to stare at the raging sea. It was tempting. So very tempting. But she'd always believed there was a time and place for pride, and this was one of them.

"No," she said firmly, finally looking him in the eye. "No, I will not become queen of a country I have never seen, nor of a people who know me not, and live safe as you say while they must tremble in the shadow of war."

His eyes filled with strange respect as she spoke, though he seemed sad. "But you will stay?" he finally asked.

"I will stay."

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead. "The agony will be great for me, as well, my love. But you have become my ray of hope in these dark times."

"Théodred?"

"Yes?"

"What is this evil that haunts your eyes and your spirit? Why will you not share it with me? What is it that befalls Théoden King?" His eyes widened in surprise, and she added, "Yes, I know they are nearly one and the same."

A moment of hesitation seized upon his features, but finally they closed once more. "You _do_ have a right to know," he said at last. "But Lothíriel, please do not make me tell you. For my sake if not for yours. Let it be as a gift to me. I would be most grateful."

There was very little Lothíriel could do to fight against such a persuasion. Her love was young and her willingness to please very great. And so she yielded, and together they resumed their places at her father's table before the rain fell on the castle of Dol Amroth.

But the ache in her heart did not go away.

* * *

Lothíriel awoke shivering, partly from the cold, but partly from restlessness. She sat up quickly, disoriented in the unfamiliar surroundings, trying to remember where she was and how she'd gotten here.

A midnight breeze rippled on the heavy, coarse fabric of the tent where she slept and she remembered in a rush— she was in a campsite somewhere in the middle of the Rohan plains, and it was freezing.

"Lothíriel." The sound of Éomer's voice a few feet away in the darkness startled her, and she turned towards it reflexively. He must have come after she'd fallen asleep. She could not see his face, only a shadow more sharply congealed than its surroundings. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No— nothing," she stammered, and reached down for the nearest of her blankets, wrapping it around her shoulders. "My dreams were uneasy."

"Why?"

Éomer's tone was distant, formal, and precise, as it had been for all the course of this strange day. Indeed, he had hardly spoken at all. Lothíriel was not sure how to conduct herself around him, but she had the feeling she wouldn't know until they arrived at the place where he was taking her. He would not tell her where, and neither would he allow his men to do so. All she knew was that they rode west, every so often bearing gradually northwest as well. The only landmark of note that she knew of in this direction was Isenguard, or what remained of it.

It was very hard for Lothíriel to make the confession that spilled from her lips at Éomer's question. "Before I slept this night," she began slowly, carefully searching for each word before speaking it, "I remembered the night I was formally betrothed to Théodred."

"It must have been a joyful time."

_Still distant_. It was as if the progress they had made over the past few months had been washed away.

"It was," she said. "But we also quarreled."

"Why?"

It was so easy for him to utter that one small question, Lothíriel decided, with something close to annoyance. And so difficult for her to answer. "He would not tell me why he feared bringing me to Edoras."

This time the silence was not awkward, but full of a strange, mutual understanding. "I promised to tell you," Éomer said at last. By now, Lothíriel's eyes had tuned themselves to the moonlight, and she could see him a little better.

"You did," she affirmed, nodding vigorously.

He sighed heavily. "It is not so long a tale, in reality," he at last confessed. "His name was Gríma, son of Galmod, Wormtongue of Rohan." Éomer's voice carried an echo of severest betterment, and a chill shivered through Lothíriel.

"I have heard of one they called Wormtongue," she said quietly, "but is not much spoken of."

"It wouldn't be. Those of us who witnessed his corruption would do all we could to forget it, though perhaps that is not altogether wise. I would loathe for it to happen again."

Lothíriel rested her head on his knees and waited for him to continue. "He was blessed with a gift of words," Éomer said. "A brilliant scholar, an orator. He could have done great things for our people, but his heart and spirit were as frail as his body. In my mind, I believe it was envy that first drove him to darkness. Envy of the glory of the _éohere_, of the great ride. He was sickly in his childhood and so was barred from these things. So he sought a form of twisted revenge, perhaps without even realizing it was revenge.

"Gríma allowed him to be swayed by the enticements of Saruman and become a spy against his own people. With evil draughts and even more poisonous words he stole the mind of my uncle, turning Théoden king into a mirror of Gríma himself— feeble, sickly, weak of mind.

"Then he began to rule Edoras from behind the shelter of the throne. They were dark times, Lothíriel. Fear and confusion were our masters. We understood not what had befallen the proud and mighty Théoden, once a shining example of strength and valor. But we loved him still and did not wish to betray him. The double-speaking worm had been subtle, and it was some time before we realized the full extent of his treachery.

"I do not believe Théodred feared for your life in keeping you away. But he did fear for your joy, and the unrest you might have suffered if you came to Edoras in those times."

Lothíriel was amazed. "So the king's vexation was not of natural cause," she said, voicing her sad wonderment. "A dark circumstance indeed."

"There is more," Éomer continued, his voice even blacker than before. "With his eyes and his steps Gríma haunted the life of my sister, making her a prisoner in her own home. And I could do _nothing_ to help her," he spat into the darkness. "I knew not what to do but ride to battle and try to defend her from afar with my sword." The pain and regret in Éomer's voice stirred Lothíriel's heart with sympathy. "I should have been there more," he said at last. "Théodred was right to keep you away. I would have sent Éowyn away if I could, but she was bound by love to my uncle and even I could not break that bond.

"This is why Théodred told no one in Rohan of your betrothal. Gríma never knew of it. Could never hang it over our heads or use it in any way to influence Théodred. And though we did not know it at the time, neither could he have informed Saruman."

"I am sorry, Éomer, that you were all forced to endure such a trial."

"Had it not been for Gríma," Éomer said slowly, and turned to look at her, "Théodred might never have died."

Éomer's tale caused Lothíriel's heart to mourn, but despite the pain, she found in the mourning a strange healing release. It was a comfort to finally understand the mysterious secret of her beloved that had been so long kept from her. She was silent for an hour afterward, lost in her own thoughts and reflections. Éomer seemed to sense her need for solitude, and did not speak.

But when the night grew colder, and her shivers stronger, he wrapped her silently in his arms, warming her both with his body and the comfort of another grieving, healing soul.

* * *

**Replies:**

**katemary77**- Not soon enough of an update, I know. But I do my best.

**lsoa**- You certainly know your Rohan history, my friend.

**Moryan**- Thanks for all your compliments, not only here but in my Star Wars stories. I hope your vacation was enjoyable, since I guess you'll probably not get to read this until you come back.

**Lady ot Rings** - A thousand thanks for your patience with the updates. You have no idea how appreciated it is.

**wondereye** - Imrahil hasn't been back since the wedding, no. And he certainly won't come now. It's almost winter. But I imagine he'll try to visit every few years. She _is_ his only daughter, after all. But he does have his own country to run.

**hannah** - Hope the wait wasn't too terribly long.

**Esawian** - Thanks.

**Blue Eyes At Night** - LOL! I think that was about my reaction too.

**Jazzcat** - You _do_ know you can post anonymously if you want, right? Then you won't have to search desperately for an unposted chapter. I think you must be out of them by now. LOL. Not that I'm complaining, mind. Your reviews are tons of fun. To answer your question, this is purely book canon, as shall become evident in the next chapter. Théodred's age is another indicator. However, Karl Urban has much to do with inspiration, so the movie gets its own kudos too. ;-)

**kati58** - Yes, yes. I'm still addicted to fanvids. Well, I'm not quite sure how to cure myself, to be honest. But eventually I get guilty enough to tear myself away and write for a while, as you can see. But fear not. The story won't go on forever!

**smor** - She's not nuts, she's… confused. Yes, confused. ;-) The Amelia revision is going splendidly. I'm alternating working on it right along with everything else and it's about 2/3 done, I think. I'm so happy with it, and when it's finished I'm going to repost it in regular installments whilst I begin working on its sequel.

**Shallindra** - I've been… around. Lazy, true. But around. I write slowly these days. I do apologize if I seem inattentive. I do appreciate all you wonderful readers.

**Iluvien** - But whatever can you mean? They _are_ together, aren't they? faceinnocent. Yeah, okay, I'll shut up. LOL

**Tracey** - Oooh, a cubicle! That's funny. Reminds me of Dilbert. LOL. Yes, more research. Speaking of the leatherwork though, I think I finally had an idea how to tie off that plot element in the last couple of chapters, which is good because I didn't want it to dangle forever…. Oh, and I'm sure Éomer appreciates your advice.

**Elwen of Lorien** - They are going to… mysterious place to the west. Actually, if you skim some of your fellow readers' speculations, it's pretty easy to determine.

**MexicanDevil-RoadCrew** - Okay, let's just get one thing straight. Éomer does _not_ have a bit on the side. LOL. No self-respecting paragon LotR man does, imho. But your first guesses were pretty spot on.

**Terreis** - Gaerwyn just liked being the boss before Lothíriel came along. LOL. She'll get over it eventually. And kree-ing your muses was the funniest thing I'd heard all day when I got your review, I'll have you know. (wipes tears). Once, in a stage production of 'Miracle on 34th Street' my friend David accidentally said Christmas Kree instead of Christmas Tree. My friend Tirzah and I were giggling hysterically (and silently from the wings).

**Ramarama** - This is the whole reason I had to show what a fun and wonderful guy Théodred was through flashbacks. So that the readers could at least to _some_ extent sympathize with Lothíriel's emotional paralysis.

**Eokat** - LOL. Yes, I think they're closer than everyone seems to believe. Really, have my readers no faith? ;-)

**Alora** - Thank you. Kisses are tricky things to handle in writing, sometimes.

**Peachy Papayas** - You sure nailed it with the 'one step forward, two steps back' analogy. In fact, Lothíriel rather does the same in this chapter, as you might have noted.

**fandun** - Well, I can't object to a review that quotes the Bard, though I might have preferred a less vicious quote. (shields face) I'm sorry! I'm sorry! LOL And ooh! Dalliance. Cool word!

**Faerchithiel** - Writer of Rohan… (snicker) That still gets me. Moving on, as best I can, I assure you. It's really, truly getting there.

**EruntaleofRohan** - I think it's finally dawned on Éomer that Lothíriel never had the closure that most people benefit from with a formal funeral or memorial. She was in Dol Amroth for all of that, whatever they might have done in Rohan.

**Estel la Rodeuse** - Yes, Éomer's practically achieving sainthood with her, I know. LOL

**Banui Rochon** - Welcome to this, eh… plodding little tale. LOL. And you're snitch-and-snitch-back system with your dad sounds very familiar to us around here. My dad and I have a similar system. Aye, Loreena is one of my favorites. The live album is actually the only one I _don't_ have.

**starnat** - Hmmn. I wouldn't say Lothíriel feels _nothing_. She does feel something and this confuses and frightens her, and makes her freeze up.

**Randirien** - Well, I always appreciate reader ideas, believe me. In this case, I know what's going to happen in my mind, so it was unnecessary, but thank you all the same. The line about the tree was cute.

**jennieren** - I'm glad the style grew on you despite your many attempts to get my fic started. LOL. I'm no one to talk. I _still_ have never managed to finish reading the Silmarillion.

**camlann** - Thank you and welcome!

**LothirielofRohan** - All your individual reviews were such a treat, thank you! And your problem about nonexistent men is one we all share, yes. LOL. And don't feel bad. Most of us want to smack Lothíriel upside the head too. ;-)

**Katya** - Road trip. Heheee!

**Angel St. Mathew** - Thanks for your wonderful compliments, and sorry that the 'very soon' part of the update didn't really pan out. LOL

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**A/N:** Well, you know the drill. Sorry it took so long, and I daresay it will take so long again next time. At least you're forewarned. However, I can promise this story's near completion. Four, perhaps five more chapters and an epilogue.

Until next time!

Saché 


	15. Resting Place

**Chapter Fifteen** – _Resting Place_

Autumn blazed along the banks of the river Isen. There was a part of Éomer that could only ever be satisfied when he was riding, and at present that part of him was at peace. The wind was crisp and invigorating. The sparkling water dappled the colors of the trees, old and young, that drank from the waters' edge.

This peace did much to sooth the more agitated parts of Éomer's spirit, resulting from painful memories he'd already faced on this journey, and those he was about to relive as well. The water was becoming increasingly shallow the further they rode upstream, more frothing as it tumbled over rocks and was prodded here and there by sandbars. His men became more sober the more they progressed, and beneath him, he also sensed a slowing in Firefoot's step. 

Someday, Éomer hoped, his people would find joy in this place as well as beauty, but for the new king of Rohan and his men, the Fords of Isen would ever be a place of sorrow. Great and noble valor, yes, worthy of song, but mostly of sadness and loss.

He glanced sidelong at Lothíriel, riding silently beside him, slightly behind, looking about her with somber curiosity. She seemed to sense his gaze, for she turned back to him, her eyes full of questions. Thankfully, she did not demand answers. She would have them soon enough.

She had been withdrawn since their discussion of Wormtongue and Théoden, but for once Éomer did not feel uncomfortable in the silence. It was clear Lothíriel had much to think on, and Éomer's mind was no less full. How he had come to love her so fully was still unclear to him. The hot-blooded part of him was impatient with her. After the painful evening of her rejection, he had been angry. Angrier than he'd been in a very long time. He'd ridden out that night— many miles beyond the city, his mind racing with frustration. He wanted her to be healed of the sorrow that held her spirit captive. It wasn't until after many hours' musings, as the sun showed first signs of stirring, that Éomer realized she might in fact need some help. Help he had never given because he'd not thought it his place to intrude.

But he'd long since gone beyond that place of polite indifference that had marked their early months of marriage. He could no longer be a mere spectator to her pain. Perhaps his actions would be more hurtful to her in the beginning, but there were certain kinds of pain that, once endured, were healing and wholesome. and he could ensure that she did not face them alone. Éomer Eadig was a fighter, and he now recognized that his wife was strong enough to fight, as well. She only needed realize it for herself.

It seemed to Éomer that even the singing of the birds softened as they rounded the last familiar bend. The stream was now so shallow that he led his riders straight into the water with no resistance to speak of. Veteran horse and rider were as surefooted in the Fords as they were on any plain. No one was really thinking about the water, though, Éomer knew, for the sunlight streaming into the clearing drew all eyes to the island in the middle of the broad, sparkling expanse.

It would now always be a hallowed place, Éomer reflected as he slowly guided Firefoot to the small sanctuary of land and dismounted. Wordlessly, he reached out to halt Tillion's progress as well, and reached up to help Lothíriel out of the saddle. She accepted his assistance mutely, her eyes transfixed upon the sight before her— a bier, overgrown now with wild grasses. Planted firmly upon the mound was a standard of Théodred, faded from sunlight, but nevertheless a proud sentinel. All around the bier, a circle of spears stood silent and watchful, each a testament to love and honor. Éomer stepped forward to straighten a solitary one that nature's forces had knocked slightly askew since his last visit here.

Lothíriel looked around at the silent and reverent riders, then turned back to Éomer with sorrow in her eyes. "What is this place?" she asked at last.

_Let me lie here— to keep the Fords till Éomer comes._

Éomer did not answer her at first, lost as he was to the past. "I am sorry I did not come more quickly, brother," he murmured to the grave of his fallen kinsman, his voice raw. He turned to Lothíriel with pained eyes. "These are the Fords of Isen. Here lies Théodred, son of Théoden, for here it was he fell.

"Here it was he commanded he remain."

* * *

_Year 3016 of the Third Age_

Théodred took leave of his bride in private, in the fountained courtyard of Imrahil's palace. Lothíriel's heart ached at the parting, but she was not without hope.

"I know not when I shall return," Théodred said, clasping her hands strongly between his. He faltered. "I know not _if_ I—"

She shook her head to halt his words. "Do not speak it, Théodred. Your skill in battle is very great. You will live and become a great king of men, and I will be at your side."

Théodred's eyes were both joyful and sad as he reached out to brush her face with his fingertips. "That is what I live for, my love. But you must hear me. If I do not survive this darkness, know that my love for you will last beyond the stars, and that I rejoice in what little happiness we've already had together. Remember that."

"I will," she promised.

He kissed her farewell with a fullness of spirit, yet tinged with the bittersweet tang of uncertain longing. The memory of it burned on Lothíriel's lips as, from the pinnacle of her father's stronghold, she watched his company of riders become smaller and smaller in the distance north of Dol Amroth.

She never saw him again.

* * *

"Saruman held a position of great strategic value in Isenguard," Éomer said, his voice weary. Lothíriel heard the words as he spoke, but knew if she ever truly wanted to understand the particulars of what had happened that day, she would probably have to ask him to retell them on a later occasion. For now, she simply let him speak. Her heart and mind were consumed by the resting place of her lost love. "He had the capability to send forces south on either side of the river, as his pleasure suited him, but the Fords were the only place any force approaching from the West would be able to cross into Rohan.

"When Saruman began his invasion, Théodred's men could never have been adequately prepared for the onslaught. We simply had no idea the number of forces Saruman had secretly amassed."

Éomer stopped speaking. Mutely, Lothíriel stepped away from him and proceeded to the bier. Something piercing and painful was rising within her. She sank to her knees before Théodred's resting place, her vision wavering with increasing intensity the harder she tried to resist. It wasn't until her shoulders began trembling with repressed sobs that she finally surrendered.

"Go," she heard Éomer quietly command his men behind her. She heard the rustling, clinking sounds of the retreating armored men, the pawing of hooves, and splashing of water, and briefly wondered if she oughtn't wait until they were gone completely, but decorum was no longer relevant. The torrent had been released, and there was no more holding back.

She could smell the pungent earth near her face as she wept like a child. But she did not merely weep. Shee beat the ground with her fists, and screamed and railed. She had shed tears for Théodred before, but never had she let her anger be known. Anger and hatred at the ambitions of men and wizards that had stolen so good a man from the world before his time. She grieved for Théodred, for Théoden-king, for Éomer, for Éowyn, for all those held captive for so long by poisonous fear. For her fallen countrymen, both of Gondor and Rohan.

She wept until all her strength was gone. All the while, Éomer stood silently looking on, just on the edge of her pain, supportive but non-intrusive. She could sense his empathy and welcomed it. She didn't have to explain a word. He understood every facet.

Exhausted and spent, she finally lay quiet for a while on the earth, until she found the courage to open her eyes. They fell upon the circle of Rohirrim spears that flanked the grave, and that, from her prostrate perspective, seemed all the more imposing. A thought crossed her mind— what was it that Éomer had said?

_You are not the only one who loved my cousin._

She thought of the reverence Éomer's men had shown for this place, and realized now what it was that Éomer had wanted her to see. Not just Théodred's final resting place, which was in itself a welcome reprieve, but to witness the sanctity of this place, the beautiful monument Théodred's people had made it. Truly they had cherished him, possibly more than she had, for they had known him far longer.

_Know that my love for you will last beyond the stars. Remember._

Yes, there was still love in the world. Nay, she reflected as she trembled slowly to an upright position, not only was it still to be found, but it had been victorious. Lothíriel, Éomer— all those who had survived— they now enjoyed a prosperous peace that men such as Théodred— willing to sacrifice everything— had granted them. The evil men would be forgotten and fade away to mere names in history books, but the mighty men who had fought and died so bravely had achieved immortality.

_I will remember, Théodred. You will live on in my love for you. In Éomer and Éowyn's love for you. In all those who remember how brilliantly you shone._

When Lothíriel finally regained her feet, all she wanted to do was sleep, the deep sleep that melted away all lingering aches after recovery from a long sickness. She turned at last back to Éomer, uncertain of what to say, of how to convey her gratitude.

He said nothing, but stepped within her sanctum and wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her softly on the forehead. "All will be well," he said.

For a moment they stood there, a strange new peace overcoming them. At last, Lothíriel found the strength to speak.

"Let's go home," she said.

It was time to face the world again.

* * *

**Replies:**

**Moryan**- Dang, since my last update, Darth Vader has taken on a new meaning for all of us, hasn't he? Lol. Oy, it's really been too long.

**Jazzcat**- Well, I have to confess, sometimes I am impatient. Impatient that I can't write (or usually post) the good parts of the story right away. But it's finally nearing that time with this story, so I'm happy! Still making fanvids, but I must take this opportunity to clarify. I'm not _filming_ anything, merely making music video edits of clips from the show/ movie I happen to be vidding. I'm hoping to have a website of my own up soon.

**Ramarama** - Well, they got where they were going. Hope you enjoyed. LOL

**Linnath**- Elfwine, good question. One I take the author's privilege not to answer. Hehe. Although, I still have trouble with his name. It seems such a very silly name to me.

**Peachy Papayas**- Many of my readers guessed rightly where Éomer was taking her.

**smor**- Éomer's frustration at his helplessness and Lothíriel's frustration in her ignorance are good ways to sum up their various… frustrations. LOL. I'm glad I was able to convey them to your satisfaction.

**EruntaleofRohan**- Things weren't _quite_ cleared at the end of the last chapter, as you can see, but I think it's safe to say that they pretty much are now. ;-)

**Dark-Sylph**- It's not that I don't like Legomances, I've just not encountered many that felt true to character or were creatively written. Believe me, I'm as red-blooded as any other girl. I'm not immune to the charms of the elf! LOL. I apologize, I have been so busy that I honestly forgot about your request after first reading your review. I shall see how well I remember this time around. As for the cleanliness of this story, I'm certainly thrilled that you appreciate it. And w00t! Long live Austen!

**CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur**- Thanks! More forthcoming!

**Elijahcat**- My version of Grima's resentment was exactly that. Mine. It just felt believeable to me. I confess in this case I didn't go searching for any sort of canon motivation.

**fandun**- My, what a flowery style of reviewing you have. LOL. Well, thanks. It's nice to know that Théodred and Éomer feel distinct. Sometimes, I must confess, the paragon men of LotR seem too similar in my mind.

**starnat**- Thank you for your review, though I must argue that Lothíriel very much would choose Théodred if he were alive. It's precisely the loss of Théodred and the scars of the war that have made Lothíriel and Éomer the people that they have become. Their love (as it grows) is of a particular sort. No less powerful, but not as common, and not as easy to step into.

**lsoa**- I hope you enjoyed today's flashback, despite the brevity. I certainly hadn't planned on it being so short, but somehow, when I actually started writing, the shortness seemed to emphasize it rather than drawing it out. At any rate, it's the next to last flashback, so enjoy! I think the next one might come as a surprise.

**Elwen of Lorien**- Thank you! Your review was likewise short, but sincere and very much welcome.

**anonymous**- What gap? The Gap of Rohan? Haha- sorry, really couldn't resist. My bad. But patience, please. Thank you for you review.

**wondereye** - I hadn't really thought of it, but I suppose the sort of sentiment he left her with at their parting could be construed as a 'message.' What do you think?

**Estel de Rodeuse**- Yes, this one is short as well, but when it's done, it's done. Each chapter accomplishes specifically what I intend it to accomplish. I hope the overall length satisfies you, however.

**Tracey**- Well, I think I just got through the ultimate in emotionally trying for Lothíriel. Hopefully, she's faced the last of her uphill demons. Thanks for your fabulous review(s), as always. LOL

**Raider-K**- I'm surprised and pleased that my expounding on Grima was such a hit! I honestly expected it to bore everybody. It's not like _we_ don't know the story. LOL. Thanks.

**Eokat**- What sort of meltdown, exactly? ;-)

**Faerchithiel**- Another flashback fan. They have been very fun.

**Blue Eyes at Night**- Wow, I wish I were brave enough to command Éomer that way! ;-)

**Ciel di Azul**- I think they have been making progress, it's just that progress isn't always very easy.

**Sarah**- Thank you and welcome!

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**A/N:** Yes, yes. Okay. I was gone too long, I know. But now my play is over and I have more time for writing. And now I finally have the ability to promise you a quick update after this one. Please give me feedback on this chapter, because the next is very nearly written already (has been for some time— it was the first thing I ever actually _wrote_ for this story). Anyway, I'm going to post it on Wednesday, after I tweak it to match the rest of the story that came before it. I think you guys will finally be happy with me. ;-)

Until then! Review, review, review!

Saché 


	16. Discovery

**Chapter Sixteen** - _Discovery_

As it happened, the world already awaited the king and queen of Rohan when they arrived home. In fact, it was almost on their front doorstep. Emissaries from Gondor had arrived the previous evening, and had been anxiously awaiting Éomer's return.

"King Elessar has requests aide to his forces in repelling the remaining orc bands pestering the borders of Gondor, my lord," the first of the messengers relayed. "Our forces are stretched thin, our men exhausted, and winter will be soon upon us."

Lothíriel studied her hands, suddenly unsettled. "I was under the impression that the threat had passed," she reflected quietly, half to Éomer, half to the messengers. She knew it was an assumption many of the people also shared.

Éomer paused, then said. "The forces of darkness are resilient," he said simply.

"Yet you are not error, my lady," the second messenger assured her. "The greatest of threats is passed. As for these orcs, they are both tired and starving. My Lord Faramir's men keep them constantly on the run, but they have been at it for many weeks. The king hopes it will be a simple matter for the Rohirrim to strike at them with fresh strength and destroy them or drive them back."

"Drive them back to where, sir?" Lothíriel asked him.

"To Mordor."

"And when they strike again?" Éomer prompted. "I agree it may be a simple matter to push them far back enough for the winter, but they may spend the season in rest, as will we."

"There are plans," said the second man. "The king will guard towers to watch the Black Gate, and ensure that nothing foul may escape."

When the messengers had departed for repast, Lothíriel joined Éomer on the parapet, following his line of sight to the mountains which faced East, to Gondor. "You must be concerned," she said, "for your sister. Ithilien is so close to Mordor."

He nodded. Then, to her surprise, his face brightened. "But Éowyn is in Minas Tirith now, for her protection."

Lothíriel shared his smile. "That is relieving. Although, I understand that if any woman is capable of defending herself, it is my lady Éowyn."

He laughed warmly. "To my constant dismay, yes. Her initiative over the years has cost me several years off my life."

"But does it not put you at rest, my lord, to know that she is capable of holding her own should the need arise?"

"I suppose it does, but she has always had an eager thirst to prove herself. My wish was that she had not been so keen."

"It is strange then, that she would so easily comply being sent to the city," Lothíriel observed.

"It might seem thus, where it not for the fact that—" he broke off, that strange smile again overtaking his face.

"Yes?"

He looked at her, eyes bright. "She bears a child, Lothíriel," he said with a proud smile. He pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket, and passed it over. "This letter from Éowyn came along with Aragorn's entreaty." Lothíriel took it eagerly, anxious for news of her friend.

_My dearest brother,_

The autumn wanes, and so comes to a close my first summer in my new home. Do not fear for my happiness, brother. I know I have assured you of it many times, but I know your tendency to worry over me. Know only this: though winter may be coming to Ithilien, it no longer has a grip on my heart. I am more happy than ever I have been, and only want your face and the winds of Edoras to make it perfect. But certain good things must be sacrificed for others to make way for new.

I fear I must forestall a visit home, for something has transpired which will ensure my presence in Gondor for many seasons. In the spring, my Lord Faramir's house will be blessed with a son. He reminds me everyday that this child might as likely be your sister-daughter, but I feel in my heart the child is a son.

There is so much more to say, but I have not the time to set it to paper. The messenger will leave for Rohan within the hour, and I will depart for Minas Tirith, where I will wait out the winter until Ithilien is better secured. I hope that your travels will bring you here soon.

Please extend my love and greetings to my new sister.

All my love,

Éowyn

Lothíriel read the letter with mixed feelings of joy, guilt, and envy. She was thrilled for her friend, but looking once more at the look of joy and pride in her husband's eyes as she returned the letter, she was overcome by acute shame. It had been almost half a year, and still she had not come to Éomer's bed. He deserved a son of his own, and her continued diffidence was denying him that right. Watching Éomer put the letter back in his pocket, she kept her face a smooth mask with which to hide her inner turmoil.

"Lothíriel," he said, suddenly catching her gaze and holding it. He really did have striking eyes, she noted. "When the guard towers are ready to be built," he said, "I will offer the use of Rohan horses to aide in their construction. I hope by then it will be time for the child's birth. Would you—?" he paused, and tilted his head a little. "Do you think you would like to accompany me on a journey there?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, rather more enthusiastically than she intended. "That would be lovely, Éomer. I would dearly love to see my lady Éowyn again. And perhaps my father, as well. Could not— " she hesitated, then plowed on. "Could not I come with you presently?"

He looked at her sadly. "I wish you could. But my plans carry me straight to the field of battle, and I have no intentions of lingering in Minas Tirith any longer than necessary before returning. Winter comes hard and fast in Rohan. I would like to precede it, if I can."

She hadn't really expected him to say yes, so her disappointment was mild. "Very well, my lord."

Any further conversation was forestalled by Emeí, who bustled into the room with her usual cheer. "Oh!" she exclaimed, upon finding the King where she hadn't left him. "Your Highness," she said, giving a quick and perfunctory curtsey. Then she strode over to Lothíriel, a thin volume in her hand. "Is this the one you spoke of, my lady?" she asked, extending it.

As the day progressed, Lothíriel felt increasingly unsettled. Éomer, his marshals, and the Gondorian men were making hasty plans for several battalions of the _éohere,_ to make for Ithilien the following morning. Whenever Lothíriel thought of her husband's departure, she felt a strange, inexplicable sadness. This feeling was subtle, but consistent.

That night, as she lay awake and restless in her chamber, she determined the reason. As she tried to imagine life at Edoras with Éomer away, she began to realize how much she'd come to count on his presence here. He was a constant, if nothing else, and her friend, if nothing more.

He _should_ be more. He was her husband, and a good man. He was strong for his people, and just. She enjoyed watching him ride— he was like poetry. So fluid. She liked it when he gave her those small smiles, like one they'd shared earlier today, when Emeí had amused them with one of her stories. Kind eyes, like smoldering coals, intent and piercing, yet sometimes they would spark just _so_...

Lothíriel blushed a little, and smiled into her pillow, glad that no one could see her now. Emeí and the other maids were sleeping soundly, leaving Lothíriel to ponder her restlessness in solitude.

She would miss those things. She would miss _him_. Since the Fords, she was strangely free from her fears— of loneliness, of loss.

No, she would not miss him because he would leave her alone, but simply because he would be gone.

_Do you love him?_

She sighed, and turned over again, thinking hard. She didn't know yet. But there was something different about this uncertainty. Something easier about it than there had been before. Now it was tinged with hope. She'd always believed she could not love him as she had his cousin, but truthfully, she'd never given the possibility a real chance. Perhaps in fact she _could_. It was possible to learn to love, wasn't it?

With a suddenness that surprised her, she sat up straight in the bed, a wild determination suddenly springing up inside her. She slid off the bed quietly, so as not to wake her companions, and felt the softness of the deer-hide throw under her feet. Everything was dark and silent, giving her the feeling she was the only waking person in Edoras. Yet, somehow, she knew this was not so.

It was only a short walk to the king's chambers. She knocked on his door as quietly as she dared, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest. She only hoped he was alone. It wasn't that late, and he and his counselors might well still be planning the journey.

The door edged open. "Lothíriel?" Éomer asked quietly, opening it a little wider and stepping out to her. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"My lord, I..." she swallowed, suddenly paralyzed.

"Yes?" he prompted, still clearly concerned that something was wrong.

"I just wanted to tell you that... I wish you did not have to go away," she managed, in a small voice. She made an intent study of a knothole in the doorpost and would not meet his eyes.

He reached out and gently touched her cheek with his hand. "I wish that too," he said quietly. Then he pulled her into a soft embrace. Lothíriel relaxed against him, and something seemed to break inside of her. Was it relief? For just a moment, she felt utterly safe and unafraid. She buried her face in his shoulder and sighed a long and heavy sigh, which seemed to drain a good portion of her tension.

They stood like that for several long moments. When she finally looked up, her stomach flipped a little, for she met his eyes, and found there a hunger she'd never before seen. It was terribly strong, yet it did not frighten her. He seemed to be bearing the weight of a terrible internal struggle, his desire to have her and his desire to respect her at painful odds. She thought of her newfound resolve, and met his gaze with long, steady calm that she hoped would give him assurance that words never could. When at last he gently lowered his face to hers, she made no move to discourage him.

It felt strange to kiss him. After so many months of polite, superficial marriage, awkward was really the only way to describe her initial reaction. She didn't really count the first time, as panic had overridden everything else, but this time she would not allow it. She was nervous, certainly, especially when his hands slid up her back and entwined into her hair, till he found her shoulders and gently coaxed her closer.

It was slow at first. Slow and savoring. Months of restraint on his part and timidity on hers still lay unspoken in the air, and she got the feeling he was holding back, not wanting to overpower her. Éomer, King of the Mark, was a man of great strength on so many levels, but he was master of that power. He controlled it. And now he controlled it for her. The thought was thrilling.

The longer she encouraged him, however, the more passionate he became. Her senses began to get heady. Love or no love, she was still a woman, after all, and the desire could be every bit as strong.

Fortunately, for Lothíriel, she _was_ his wife.

"My lord," she whispered, breaking off to meet his gaze. "Éomer."

His breath was fast and hot so close to her face. "Yes?" he asked, his voice thick. Even now, she could see sudden disappointment lighting up behind his eyes. She was quick to reassure him with a smile, though a resulting blush made her look away for a moment. "Well," she said softly, looking around at the empty corridor, "do you not think we should go inside?"

_That_ caught him by surprise. He too looked around, noting the open doorway and stifled a sudden laugh, which was no mean feat, considering the way his voice tended to carry. Lothíriel giggled in return, and soon they were both laughing like children, desperately trying to keep it quiet. This went on until she didn't think she could breathe anymore, until he kissed her again, and then, for a moment, she _did_ stop breathing.

"Are you sure?" he asked her quietly when he pulled away again.

Customary inward inhibitions threatened to overtake her for half a heartbeat, but she stubbornly beat them down. They had no place, and more than anything, for the first time, she wanted them to just go away.

"Yes," she whispered, keeping all traces of hesitation from her voice, or anything that may have been mistaken for it. "Yes, I'm sure."

He said nothing else, only reached down to pick her off her feet, lifting her into his arms as though she were as light as a newborn fawn. Then he carried her into the room and shut the door behind them.

* * *

The early morning air carried with it strong traces of autumn chill, as the winds from the mountains came whipping over Medueselde. The valley below still lay in shadows; the sun had not yet crested the surrounding peaks, but a glowing ring of light hovered over everything like a golden halo. Soon, the beams of light _would_ penetrate the valley, and the Golden Hall would shine— a thing of beauty worthy of a poet's song.

Éomer often found himself awake and vigilant at this hour, awaiting this special moment of the day. Sometimes he would ride out early, to see the Hall from afar. Sometimes he would watch from the threshold of the Hall, marveling at the vision of his ancestors, when they had conceptualized the building of their country's great seat.

Today he watched from his wide chamber window.

Clad only in light breeches, he paid little heed to the chill. It would pass soon enough, and his thoughts were occupied with warmer things. Fresh, beautiful, and very warm things.

He turned for a moment from the window, glancing back at the slender form lying asleep in his bed— the peaceful figure of his wife. He'd been doing it nearly every minute since he'd awakened, feeling a need to reassure himself that she was really there, that the previous night had not been a fantastic dream his weary mind had conjured for itself.

She seemed, somehow, even more beautiful this way than she did waking. Perhaps it was because the sorrow she carried with her was temporarily lifted from her face. She appeared content and at rest.

He had loved her long, this Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. It had begun as compassion, for his heart shared in her mourning when she spoke of his cousin. That much they had always shared, even from the beginning. Théodred had been like a brother to him. The course of his life had completely shifted everything he'd ever envisioned for himself. He should have been Théodred's marshal, his right hand. Instead, he found himself sitting upon his cousin's throne, married to the woman his cousin had loved. It had not been easy on either of them.

The awkwardness of this situation had long held his feelings at compassion only. Before long, however, compassion began to slowly grow into a deep, intense respect and admiration. He began to see in Lothíriel the same strength he'd always recognized in Éowyn, which had not at first been evident, for it manifested itself very differently. Éowyn's strength had always seemed like a stream after heavy rainfall in spring— rushing, frothing, swift, and determined. She had longed and succeeded to affect her surroundings, to change things, to initiate. Lothíriel, on the other hand, was a deeping pool— quiet, steady, teeming with life and hidden depths.

Admiration had progressed to friendship, and friendship— with rather alarming speed- to love, at least on his part. Clearly solely on his part, for though they had formed a tentative connection of sorts, her hesitance was still evident in everything she did. He began to ache for her love, but he could not compel it.

It had almost been a relief, this request for aide from Aragorn. He would be eager to help both the king and his newfound brother, eager to occupy his hands and his mind with something other than his lonely heart. Though there was plenty still to be done at Edoras, Lothíriel's proximity there kept her almost constantly in his thoughts. The idea of perhaps escaping her by means of distance was appealing, though part of him had doubted this would be successful.

What a surprise it had been, therefore, to open his door the previous evening and see her standing there, looking frightened and beautiful in the dim, flickering light of evening torches, bringing with her a confession. She did not want him to leave. She would miss him. A shred of newfound hope blazed inside him and he'd embraced it eagerly, just as he'd stepped out to embrace her, almost terrified that she would flee him.

She hadn't. She had let him in, for whatever reason. He'd read her eyes perfectly. Too long they'd been lonely together, isolating themselves needlessly. It had taken a good portion of willpower to hold back the flood of pent up longing when he had kissed her. She had long seemed to him like a new bird, ready to begin flying, but still needing a measure of guidance and protection. The longer he held her, though, the more he began to realize that his little bird had somehow acquired a new confidence, and that she was far stronger than he'd been giving her credit for.

He still was not assured of her love, and he knew he needed it still, but she had given him hope. Without that, he never would have succumbed to the passion inside him, carrying her into his rooms, into a bed that had been so long a solitary place. Their mutual discovery had been slow, sweet, and tender, and even now he reveled in the fresh memories of her- the softness of her lips, the scent of her hair, the feel of her fingers on his face, gazing up at him...

The rising sun at last conquered the sheath of mountains, spilling golden light into the far reaches of the shadowed hollows, but this time the King of the Mark did not observe, for his attention was once again transfixed by a more novel beauty. At last, he turned and disregarded the vista before him altogether, making his way over to the bedside. He stood there, staring down at her in fascination for a very long time, watching the rise and fall of her quiet breathing and the flutter of lashes against smooth cheeks. At length, he stooped down beside her, almost hesitantly brushing away a few straying strands of dark hair from her face, a gesture he'd longed before to make, but had never dared.

"I love you," he whispered, letting his fingertips linger in her hair a moment before he stood, reluctantly forcing himself to focus on the arduous journey he must undertake within the hour.

He dressed himself speedily, but quietly, and she did not stir. He was very nearly ready to venture at last back into the wider world, when a furious, frantic pounding suddenly jolted him out of his peaceful mood.

"My lord," called a muffled voice from the other side of the door, and he recognized it instantly as Emeí's voice. She sounded quite panicked. "My lord, please, come quickly."

In three strides he had reached the door and opened it, mystified at what could be troubling her. "Emeí, what is the matter?"

She was breathing hard as she replied. "My lady queen," she began. "She is missing, my lord. She was not in her chambers this morning, and no one has seen her. I've searched high and low, my lord, she's nowhere to be found."

Éomer stifled a laugh, for he had the feeling poor Emeí would not take kindly to such a gesture. Instead he smiled a little, hoping to mollify the girl quickly. "Queen Lothíriel is here, Emeí," he assured her. "But please be quiet, she is resting yet. I do not wish that you should wake her."

The girl's eyes widened in unmistakable, unexpected surprise. She blinked a couple of times, and finally managed a small, abashed, "Oh." Another moment's digestion of this news yielded an even more embarrassed expression on her face. "Very well, my lord," she muttered, stepping away. "I'll just be seeing to my lady's wardrobe, then." Without another word, she turned heel and scampered, as if nothing was so important as being somewhere else as quickly as possible.

Éomer closed the door and turned, chuckling. When he glanced back at Lothíriel, he found her awake, watching him sleepily. Apparently, Emeí's outburst had indeed been enough to waken her.

"Good morning," he said with a nod and a small smile, not quite sure what else should be said.

"Good morning," she replied in kind, her voice very soft, and her smile very shy. This was followed by a deep blush, and she turned her gaze away, burying her face in the pillow, despite the fact that she was still smiling. It was endearing that she would still blush, despite the course of the night's discoveries.

He was quick to occupy himself with activity, hoping to dispel her discomfort. At the foot of the bed was a large trunk, and he stepped over, opened it, and pulled out a large dressing gown that he rarely used. "Here is this, if you're cold," he offered gently, handing it over to her.

"Thank you," she said shyly. Her own dressing gown was still a puddle of cloth on the floor beside them, but it was much thinner than he liked for the chill of the morning. He turned away as she robed herself, a gesture not unlike her blushing, he realized. Long habits of modesty made their presence know more insistently in the daylight, it seemed. "You must away soon, my lord?" she asked when she'd finished.

"Yes," he replied shortly. "I imagine the men are nearly assembled by now. Eothain is a capable captain. He's probably wondering what is keeping me."

"I doubt he suspects my interference, my lord," she replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, though she did not look at him.

He smiled, "Maybe not yet," he agreed. "But I'm afraid I cannot linger. I must be gone."

She nodded, and looked up to catch his eyes with her own, the words of the previous night still being spoken there. She would still miss him.

He took a hesitant step toward her. He did not feel confident, even now, that any initiative on his part would be welcome. But she did not shy away. He did not embrace her when he kissed her. Her arms were crossed against her body, his at his sides. It was short and soft, almost chaste. It felt to him like a promise. Not a confession, necessarily, but a promise of hope.

_I will try_, it said.

Hope. It would be his gift during the cold journey ahead, one he was now not quite so eager to undertake, but his heart was lighter than it had been for some long time.

* * *

**Replies:**

**EruntaleofRohan**- Lothíriel felt release, more than anything else, I think. I think we all experience it at various times in our lives, and it comes in all shapes and circumstances.

**Moryan**- Forget Me Not is going to come slowly, because it's getting into the actiony part of the story, and I'm traditionally very fuzzy with that kind of writing. LOL. As for sequels, this story will _not_ have one, but FMN may. It depends on a couple of factors.

**Jazzcat**- Your review is so long, I have trouble what all deciding to comment on. LOL. So I'll jump on this: your feelings on autumn. I have only question. Have you seen the movie _The Village_? If not, I highly recommend it. First off, it's not a movie about monsters in the woods. I love it and I hate horror movies. LOL. More importantly, though, it has one of the most exquisite soundtracks known to man. And I've always described the music as sounding like autumn. It's… haunting and gorgeous and innocent all at the same time. Honestly, I can't even describe it. You just have to check it out. Even if you're not interested in the film, beg, borrow, or steal the soundtrack somewhere. Thank you so much for your detailed review!

**Elwen of Lorien**- Yeah, I think a lot of people need that closure.

**LothírielofRohan**- You seem as though you care enough about Legolas as a character (as opposed to a hunk of Bloomage- lol) that I'm sure your story comes over well.

**Deandra**- Thanks for the great review! Originality is a terribly appreciated compliment, lol. And it won't be but a couple more chapters before you can read it as a whole.

**smor**- Well, I certainly hope you enjoyed said quick update. Mwuahaha!

**starnat**- Thanks. The war changed people and circumstances, that much is for sure.

**lsoa**- wow, your favorite, huh? Dang. And here I thought it almost felt like a cop-out. LOL Thank you!

**CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur**- She pretty much ran the gamut, didn't she? Heh. Thanks!

**Tracey**- No problem. I'm just happy to finally be getting to the best parts of this little tale. :-P

**Lady ot Rings**- well, you're welcome! I think Lothíriel feels much better now.

**KaterineKasdorf**- Well, how very nice of you to drop by! The play I just finished was _The Taming of the Shrew_. I played Baptista, who, for our purposes, we changed to a woman. It was terrific fun. I'm a Bardaholic, as they say, involved in a fledgling little troupe called the Ohio Youth Shakespeare Festival. So far we've done Midsummer, Much Ado, and now Shrew. Next year they will be doing Twelfth Night and the Tempest. I probably won't get to be an actor because I've reached the age limit for "youth" involvement, but I'll probably help direct, which will be fun.

**Taima1**- By "meant-to-be" did you mean you didn't like the thought of our princess in love with someone else? LOL Well, I purposely kept the identity of the "other" in my summary because I was hoping it'd surprise people. Thanks for checking out the story. I'm glad you like it.

**Linnath** - Nice catch on the canon line. I was hoping someone would enjoy it.

**Ramarama**- I want one too. I've always wanted one. ;-)

**wondereye**- hmmn. Perhaps I should have just gone ahead and called that chapter "closure" huh? LOL. Thanks for the review!

**Kay50**- Thanks!

**Crimson**- E'en at hand, my friend! Nice timing. ;-)

* * *

**A/N:** I have a traditional habit of skipping ahead and writing the parts I most want to write in my stories long before they're due, and so it was in this case. This chapter was the first ever to be written, and has actually gone through very little change since then. The scene from Éomer's point of view, has always been a favorite of mine. It was written at a very emotional juncture in my life, and even I can see the influence. In any case, the reason I wanted to bring it up is because it may seem as though some of Éomer's thoughts are a bit redundant, but I just couldn't bring myself to touch it. I'm so used to it the way it is, and hey, this is fanfic. Mwuahaha.

Everyone enjoy! I'm hoping the next update will be in two or three weeks. In the meantime, all you Harry Potter fans have as much fun as I'm planning on having this weekend. (bounces about impatiently). Later!

Saché 


	17. Morning Glory

**Chapter Seventeen** — _Morning Glory_

Éomer had not been mistaken about the swift onset of winter. Two months after he and his companies had departed, the valley plains began to be encrusted with thick frost each morning, and Emeí assured Lothíriel that the snows were not far behind. For Lothíriel, the bitter chill was particularly difficult to bear. Her homeland, so far to the south, boasted far warmer winters in comparison, with very little snow, and certainly nothing that caused Lothíriel to stay buried beneath the covers in the morning, reluctant to emerge until the fire had been banked and she could feel its heat. After many long mornings spent thus, she finally yielded to her pride and began sleeping in Éomer's vacant chamber.

She tried to assure herself that this action was only because of the cold. The fact that the room beckoned as a place of comfort and warm memories, and that she had secretly been desiring to return there all along surely had nothing to do with it. After all, the windows faced full east, allowing the sun to stream within each morning, capturing what little warmth was to be had. The fire was larger, and closer to the bed, and burned longer into the night. On the other hand, she could not for the life of her to convince Emeí or any of the other ladies to share the chamber with her, being that it belonged to the King, so the bed itself took quite some time to warm up. She found, however, that with a bed to herself no one had any objections to her sleeping with Froilas, so the pup became her clandestine nightly companion.

The first night was strange. Although Éomer had been gone for many long weeks, the flickering shadows mingled with firelight upon the ceiling kindled memories that heated her more completely than any bedfellow could have done… except the one who had caused them. The memories were not unwelcome. Strong arms, confident hands, beautiful tenderness… her king had certainly made an unexpected impression.

His scent lingered in the bedclothes. There were touches of him scattered through the room. Spare clothing and armor. Scattered maps and reports pertaining to Rohan. A currycomb and a bridle tossed idly onto a chest beneath a window. These last caused Lothíriel to smile, and she brushed her fingertips over them, remembering the grace and motion of the horse and rider they belonged to.

Then there was the most lasting memory of all. Tentative fingers brushing her hair. She had lain stock still, sensing his breathing and his presence, for some reason unwilling to intrude upon his reverie. Callused fingers with gentle intent, and then a whisper, a confession of love, so unpretentious and heartfelt. How had he not heard the way her heart had suddenly sped up inside her at these words? These words that now ran through her waking thoughts without ceasing, and carried into her dreams themselves. When had Éomer of Rohan quietly stolen away a piece of her heart? How had it come upon her so completely unawares?

Lothíriel was put in mind of the morning glories that grew upon the walls of her father's castle. Each dawn they were tightly closed, hidden from the world, refusing to exhibit their beauty. Then, with a simple touch of the sun, they would open, eagerly and swiftly, utterly changed and transformed. That was how she felt now. With a kiss and a touch and an absence, Éomer had become her sunshine, and now her face was turned toward him, and she could barely think of anything but his return.

When he returned, she resolved, she would confess to him all these things— this healing in her heart, this love she now realized she carried for him. It was so different from her love for Théodred, like sleeping embers rather than a heated flare, embers being turned and coaxed into a strong and lasting fire. It was neither better nor worse— simply different. It had come upon her softly and slowly.

Had she refused Éomer's suit, would she ever have had the chance to discover it? She found this question strangely frightening, and she chose not to dwell upon it, but was grateful that her choice had been made as it had. There were other fears more worthy of her attention. The days continued to grow colder, and still Éomer had not returned. She watched for him every evening from the pinnacle of the golden hall, facing longingly to the east until the stars shone, either clear or veiled by clouds.

On one such night, the clouds were particularly heavy and dark and brassy. Lothíriel shivered with Froilas at her side until at last Emeí came out to find her, worried and scolding.

"You must come inside now, my lady. I have your meal hot and prepared. You must keep warm or you will get ill. You are unaccustomed to our winter."

Lothíriel sighed regretfully towards the distant horizon once more and allowed herself to be led away. As they stepped around the corner, Emeí turned to scrutinize the clouds of her own accord. She paused, studied them thoughtfully for a moment with knowing eyes, and took a deep, testing breath. "It will snow tonight," she said at last.

They resumed their way indoors.

* * *

Five days on the road from Minas Tirith, Éomer's men expressed a wish to press for Edoras with all speed, forgoing a fifth night of breaking camp. He could understand their desire for haste. In cold this bitter, a bedroll was little more comfortable than a saddle, and the horses had been well-rested in Gondor. Éomer too was anxious to be home, eager to bundle away for the duration of the winter, eager to lay eyes upon his wife. And so he had easily agreed to their request.

It was now well past midnight, and the fields and gullies around him were becoming increasingly familiar. Éomer knew every mile of his country, but the hills and plains around Edoras he could have navigated with his eyes closed. Within half an hour, the city would be in sight. He wondered for the first time the prudence of arriving at this unseasonable time of night, but dismissed the notion, deciding that it would be a good means to test the alertness of his sentinels.

The clouds were pregnant with snow. He could smell it in the air, and knew it wasn't likely that they would reach Edoras before the first flakes fell. Just as well that they had ridden ahead, then. A snowstorm might have delayed their journey even further.

He reflected on the success of the campaign as his eyes strained ahead for a first glimpse of the darkened hall, though he knew he wouldn't be able to see it yet. As he'd predicted to Lothíriel, the starving, feral orc bands had been easy enough to drive back, but they'd had to drive them far. The chase had been long and wearying, but at last Faramir had determined the distance sufficient to keep Ithilien safe for the winter.

The respite in Minas Tirith, though brief, had been enjoyable. Éowyn was aglow with a new radiance, one that caused him great wonder. He hadn't thought it possible that she would show greater happiness than he'd seen in her on her wedding day, but now he was proven wrong.

He'd confided to her how things fared with Lothíriel—all the awkwardness, the distance, then the burgeoning friendship, and the recent, unexpected developments which gave him hope. These had caused her to smile. "I do not see how she will not come to love you, brother, in her own time. You must have patience."

"Is there nothing more I can do?" he'd asked, insistent. "Is there nothing more I can say to her? You know I am not a man of idleness, Éowyn, I—"

She'd stopped his lips with a firm hand. "Patience," she repeated, smiling. "You have done enough. You are yourself, my wonderful and noble brother. Believe me. It is enough."

Her words troubled him, not because he did not understand them, but because he did not know from whence she had such certainty. He finally determined that it was one of those mysteries concerning women he would never understand.

It had been good to spend time with Faramir and Aragorn, as well. Between them, the two men had been solidifying their plans for the fortification of Gondor's wildest borders. Aragorn was determined that the peace they'd fought so hard for would not be foolishly taken for granted. When Éomer had expressed his desire to bring Lothíriel to Gondor for the birth of the child, the suggestion had been met with enthusiasm on all fronts.

As enjoyable as the time had been, however, the imminent threat of winter and a longing for home had pressed Éomer and his companies to make for home, and they departed a mere two days after arriving in the White City. Now they found themselves with less than a league to go, and despite the nighttime shroud, Éomer could recognize the familiar hulk of Edoras in the distance. He smiled and urged Firefoot onward, hastening the pace as the first flakes of snow began drifting down from the clouds above.

* * *

Lothíriel sat up with a gasp when the sentinel's cry pierced the silent night. For a moment she sat in the middle of the bed, blinking into the darkness, so out of sorts that she didn't notice it was freezing. Then the cry came again, distant and urgent, but she could not make out the words. From the corridor without, she began to hear sounds of the hall awakening, and hastily clad herself in Éomer's large, heavy dressing gown. She opened the door to a dim and rushed scene of Éomer's men, rushing about, some still half-dressed in nightclothes. "Éothain," she called when she spotted the captain.

He turned at the sound of her voice and hastened towards her, nodding his head. "My lady," he said, "I was going to send someone to advise you."

"What is going on?" she asked with concern.

He smiled. "Éomer King returns, my lady. His _éored_ approach the city gates even now."

Lothíriel's eyes widened in surprise and delight. "Éomer," she whispered to herself with a smile. Then, realizing that Éothain probably expected a less fanciful reaction, she pulled herself together and became queen. "Stoke the fires," she ordered, tightening the sash around her dressing gown with confidence. "I'm sure you'll wish to get to the stables. Is Gaerwyn awake?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Good," Lothíriel nodded. "She and I will take care of things here. See to the king."

The next little while was spent making frantic preparations, trying to make the hall ready to receive two dozen cold and hungry riders. All the while, Lothíriel's senses were racing faster than the wind, and her stomach seemed to have taken flight with them. She didn't understand why she should be so nervous.

Perhaps it was the time of night—the unexpected return, the joyful anticipation, the energy that everyone shared. Ceremony was set aside and conversation was animated. When Éomer finally entered his hall, it was not as a king but as a soldier, talking and laughing loudly among his men, their happiness evident and their spirits high. Still, Lothíriel noted how his eyes began searching as soon as he'd set foot over the threshold, and did not stop until they found her. He gave her a small, private smile, and a nod, which she returned warmly before he turned once more to the men around him.

She tried not to be jealous as she helped the other ladies attend to the tired riders. Jealous of the men who held her king's attention. Jealous of the wives who would get their husbands to themselves as soon as they all headed home. Still, she knew it would not be long before the tired company parted ways, so she held her peace.

At long last, Éothain managed to drag the last of the men out the door, and Lothíriel sent a yawning Emeí back to bed. Then she returned to the king's chamber, only to find her husband staring, puzzled and head cocked, at the languid form of Froilas snoring loudly in the middle of his bed. He heard Lothíriel's footfall, and turned. "Have things fallen so far in Rohan that a man cannot even come to his own hall and find his bed unoccupied?" he asked.

"Froilas!" Lothíriel called, clapping her hands loudly, even as she laughed. The dog made a snuffling noise, yawned, and turned over, but she did not wake up. "Froilas!" Lothíriel tried again, but to no avail. She looked at Éomer with apologetic eyes. "I'm afraid I have spoiled her, my Lord."

He grunted. "Well, she will just have to be taught who is king, won't she?" he said. He reached down, gathered the dog in his arms, and set her gently on the floor, whereupon she immediately woke and began jumping excitedly on him, yipping, and licking his hands.

"Froilas, be quiet!" Lothíriel tried, but she was laughing so hard by now that she didn't really expect the animal to even hear her, let alone obey. Instead, she ran to the pair, hauled the dog gracelessly away and shuffled her out the door. "You stay out there until you can calm down," she whispered warningly. Froilas only panted hopefully and yipped a few more times as Lothíriel closed the door in her face.

Éomer was sitting on the edge of the bed now, reaching down to pull off one of his boots. Lothíriel rushed forward. "Allow me, my Lord," she said shyly. He paused in surprise, then studied her with interest as she deftly relieved him of both boots, setting them neatly beside her. When she'd finished, she looked up with a quiet smile. "Welcome home."

"And why was the dog in my bedchamber?" he asked softly, studying her face.

Lothíriel blushed and lowered her eyes. "Your pardon, my Lord. I allowed her, in order to help keep me warm at night."

He was quiet a moment. "You slept here?" he finally asked, an odd catch to his voice.

"Not at first," she admitted, and rose to her feet. "Do you wish me to go?" She turned to head toward the door, but stopped when he reached out and grasped her hand.

"No," he said. "Please stay, if you like."

She met his eyes, and found in them a childlike hope that almost made him seem fragile, were such a thing possible. Slowly, she nodded.

As Éomer continued to prepare himself for bed, Lothíriel kept up a running conversation for his benefit, although it was mostly one-sided. She could see his exhaustion more and more with each passing moment, but it was exhaustion of the body only. Clearly, he was happy and relieved to be home. There was something else there, too, a serenity in his countenance as he listened to the sound of her voice, an expression that was entirely too contented to just be listening to her trivial chatter. He was glad to be with her again. And as strange as it was, Lothíriel couldn't help but feel she was giving him something back after all he'd done for her. Was this what it would be like, to take care of him as a wife, not just as a queen? She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so utterly happy.

Lothíriel was half-tempted to spill forth all the feelings she'd been realizing in his absence, but something held her back. She knew, somehow, that tonight was not the time. She would know it when it came. She could only hope it would be soon.

When at last he had finished, Éomer blew out the flickering candles and lay down on the bed. Lothíriel lay down too, and he drew her wordlessly into his arms. She did not object, but welcomed them, letting out a sigh of contentment, and she realized that somehow, inexplicably, he already knew.

* * *

**Replies:**

**CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur**- Thanks! It was a joy to write.

**Deandra**- Thank you for all your reassurances about redundancy. LOL And how can I complain about fic rec's? Thank you so much.

**EruntaleofRohan**- It's probably the most romantic chapter I ever _wrote_ in my life, so I suppose the association is fitting. Thanks!

**smor**- Snog. What a perfectly gregarious word, you know? But also fun. Thanks for the review.

**LothirielofRohan**- Sorry about no quickie update, but thank you for your appreciation of the romance. I'm glad to know full disclosure doesn't appeal to _everyone_.

**Jazzcat**- Your review has amused me, for the polar opposite results of your two prognostications (sort of): Lothiriel's state of waking during Eomer's confession, and Eomer's fate in the battlefield. Nay, my friend. This story has dragged on long enough already. Anyway, I already played the injury card as it is. ;-) However… good call on the other. Mwuahaha.

**Rachel Prongs**- Ah, he is rather perfect, isn't he? LOL

**Moryan**- I hope you enjoyed the FMN update, as well. I know my progress on both stories is appallingly slow, but I have my reasons, not all of which are disclosed in full. In any case, thanks for your fun review, as always!

**Elwen of Lorien**- well, Elfwine has to come along sometime soon. I guess it was only inevitable, eh? LOL. Thanks for the review!

**lsoa**- It was a little bit of both (long-pondered, long-written). The latter scene, in particular, came from deep, deep inside me. I'm very glad you enjoyed it.

**Iluvien**- LOL – as I noted earlier, I think wounding Éomer twice in one story would be both tired _and_ exhausting as a writer, not to mention just plain cruel to the poor man. I mean, how many different ways can I torture him? ;-) No, we've pretty much crested the hump of conflict in this tale. On the other hand, I hope this doesn't mean you find the present offering to be an lackluster. It's pretty cut and dry, I guess. Lol

**wondereye** - I hope Lothiriel's musings were acceptable to you. :-)

**Blue Eyes at Night** - LOL! Yeah, poor Emeí. Such creatures of habit are we. That was fun review. Thanks!

**Lady ot Rings**- Thank you! Technically, Lothiriel hadn't accepted her feelings until _this_ chapter, but I think it's very safe to say she was awakening to them.

**klaw** - thanks!

**Linnath**- yikes! I totally meant to answer your question much earlier, and then it slipped my mind. We are actually in the Akron-Canton area, and will be performing next summer out of the stage at Kent's Stark Co. campus, probably performing _Twelfth Night_ and _The Tempest_ in rep (alternating) for a good portion of the season. I don't think the website's been assembled yet, but when it is, I'll try to remember to send it to you. Oh, and thanks for the review!

**Maddy051280**- Yes, yes. I promise I'll finish it. LOL. Bit by grinding bit. Thank you for delurking and for your very empowering review!

**twin03** - Alas, if only the title 'twere mine. ;-) Thank you for the fabulous review. Eomer makes writing larger-than-life romance very easy indeed. Lol

**Kay50**- Thank you, and don't feel bad about not reviewing. I've been there too. Go lazy people! W00t!

**Eokat**- and waiting… and waiting… and waiting. Well, I hope it was worth it. Thank you for all your consistent feedback. :-)

**Tracey**- Danke! Tasteful. Dignified and graceful in its implications. I am glad to have such a word chosen to describe my magnum opus of the fic. Hehe.

**starnat**- it was very much introspective, wasn't it? Thanks

**Estel de Rodeuse** - Welcome back! Um… two months later? LOL Bad author! Thanks for your lovely comments.

**Demeterd**- Welcome. I pleased you liked the Lothiriel/Theodred storyline. It was certainly one of my most enjoyable elements of this fic. Also, I liked the point you made about the actual and symbolic shutting of the door. Never really thought about it in quite that light before. And LOL about being a Gondorian chamber maid. I actually had this argument with someone the other day… a great many of my fellow thespians are huge fans of the film Shakespeare in Love, and while I agreed that in all otherwise aspects, it was a great film, there was just too much sex in it for my tastes, and thus I've only ever seen it once. My friend sort of condescendingly said, "I hate to break it to you, but people had sex back then." I was like… yeah, but it's supposed to be special and private. It's not something we need to _see_. Eh, anyway. Ah, the joys of trying to hold onto standards in these times. LOL In any case, thanks ever so much for your great reviews.

**coffeehigh**- Thanks! Sorry about the delay on that

**Miana** - Congratulations, #300! Mmmn. Riddermeat. :-D

* * *

**A/N:** The time got away from me on this one. It seriously doesn't feel like it's been over two months. I've been so wrapped up in… well, everything that I thought it was just yesterday I updated.

I have an inkling that the next chapter may just include some manner of snow-romping, so it should be fun (for the record – any adult who does not occasionally feel the urge to make snow angels or splash in rain puddles has forgotten what it is to live – lol). In any case, the next chapter will also be the last "regular" chapter and feature the last of the flashbacks. After that, I have an epilogue planned that I haven't even divulged to my close cyberfriends, so it should be a treat all around.

Later!

Saché 


	18. Love Comes Softly

**Chapter Eighteen** – _Love Comes Softly_

_His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem. _

_ Song of Solomon 5:16_

* * *

All day long, the falling snow kept Lothíriel's eyes tethered to whatever window was nearest. It was almost as captivating as the glimpses she caught of her husband out of the corner of her eye. Returned as he was from so many weeks' absence, Éomer was naturally much occupied with affairs of Rohan. Lothíriel was included in his councils, but found that her concentration— usually steadfast and faithful— seemed to have fled with the turn of the season. Or perhaps the return of a certain Rider of the Mark.

When Éomer finally declared he'd had enough of official business, Lothíriel broke with the rest of the councilors and went to stand by the window. She separated the shutters with chilled fingers to get a better look at the newly-dressed valley, now utterly white and silent. Still the snow fell, thick and cold, and she wondered that there could be so much of it.

"You had almost disguised yourself as a true-born Rohirrim, but till now," said Éomer with a chuckle, coming to stand beside her.

Lothíriel looked over at him, then smiled and blushed. "Aye," she replied, laughing a little herself. "I must seem a child, I suppose. But it is whiter even than Tillion, Éomer! And only yesterday there was naught of it to be seen."

Éomer's chuckles grew deeper. "Come then, snowbird. If your fascination is so complete, then you must have a closer look."

He took a mystified Lothíriel by the hand, and led her first to her chamber, where he charged Emeí with seeing she was properly clad for winter riding, then waited upon her in the hall. Before she was quite certain how it had come about, Lothíriel found herself riding through the pure and bitter sea of snow, the king at her side.

At first they did not speak. No other sound could be heard throughout the valley except the soft, muffled pawing of their horses' hooves, and it seemed as though speech would have broken the enchantment. Lothíriel held out her gloved hand to watch the thick flakes fall upon it, studying each small star perch bravely on the kidskin before melting away as if it had never been.

Finally, she could not help it, and burst out asking, "Does it ever stop?"

Lothíriel was quite sure Éomer's booming laughter could be heard all the way to the distant mountains. On the other hand, they were so perfectly enshrouded by the elements, that she felt as though they were utterly alone, and that no one would ever hear him laugh again but for herself. "At times I wonder that myself," he replied, pulling Firefoot to a halt. "I daresay you'll ask that question again before the season is over, but not nearly so hopefully. Winter is a cruel and strange mistress. As beautiful and deceptive as an unfaithful woman."

Lothíriel turned to look at him with speculative eyes. "And how much experience, Éomer king, have you had with unfaithful women?"

"Éomer _king_ has none at all," he replied staunchly, grinning. "As to the time before that, there are some things the Queen of Rohan ought _not_ to know."

"None at all, then," Lothíriel laughed. "And if I really wanted to know, a simple missive to Ithilien would be all the effort required."

"The gods protect a man caught between the wiles of his sister and his wife," said Éomer, then dismounted in one fluid motion.

Lothíriel would have followed suit had she not been certain he would come around the far side of Tillion to assist her. She craved his nearness, as silly as it was. Yet there was nothing silly about the flush of warmth she felt when he'd lowered her to her feet and then lingered with his hands at her sides a moment longer than necessary, staring solemnly into her eyes. Then he took her hand and began to lead her away from the horses.

Giddy did not begin to describe what Lothíriel was feeling. Even the cold added to her happiness, finding the chinks in her armor of wool and fur to prick her skin and remind her that she was alive. She couldn't remember having ever felt so awake, and her vision seemed even wider and clearer than it had that day on the sea, when the curse of the East had broken and the winds had surged for joy. But not even the pristine beauty all about her could have compared with that day had it not been for the beacon of warmth that clasped his hand with her own. At that moment she felt she could have done anything, and if she stumbled, Éomer of Rohan would catch her as gently as a lark on a breeze.

A joyful laugh broke from her chest unbidden, and she likewise broke away from Éomer's hold, running forward with her arms spread wide and spinning as fast as she could, as she and her brothers had done on the sea foam when they were children. Then, as she'd been longing to do all morning, she stopped, and lifted her tongue to the sky to taste the falling snow. It was cold and soft and made her laugh again when she'd tasted it.

She looked over at Éomer, and for a moment her smile faltered, not out of distress, but in wonderment. The affection in his gaze was so strong it made her breath catch, but he must have realized it, for he smiled in return encouragingly, and Lothíriel broke out in a grin. "Race you!" she cried, and bolted off in the direction of Edoras as fast as possible.

She had no intention of reaching the city, of course, nor had she any intention of winning. Even had she wanted to, it would have been foolhardy, for unlike on the beaches of Dol Amroth, here she had no native advantage. Still, she raced as furiously as her unsure footing would allow until she sensed Éomer's longer stride not far behind her. She wasn't sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the sting of something small and hard striking fast at her side. Surprised, she lost a step and tumbled, still laughing, to her knees, a ball of snow lying now with deceptive innocence at her side.

When Éomer came to tower over her in triumph, she put her hands on her hips and looked up at him with feigned cheek. "You cheated."

"I fear, my lady, you never specified any rules."

"Is that your only excuse?" Lothíriel asked, laughing as brushing wet, clinging slow off her sleeves. The words were form only, for she couldn't possibly have been indignant if she'd tried. She looked back up at him expectantly.

He knelt down slowly, his eyes full of playfulness— but something else as well, something like delicious lighting. "And," he said with equal deliberation, holding her gaze, "I'm the king." This last was lower, deeper, more private, and made Lothíriel forget that she was supposed to be cold.

He half leaned forward, she half pulled him down, but in that moment all else was forgotten but the taste of wine and the smell of stark winter eclipsed by bursting passion, long-repressed.

"Éomer," Lothíriel whispered when she was able to catch her breath. This close, this quiet, this alone… it was just such a moment that she'd been watching for. He made no reply except to pull away, questioning with his eyes. It was an oddly gentle query in such a moment, as if he sensed that what she wanted to say went far beyond the intoxication of a heated kiss. And so he waited, expectantly, until her lips uttered the words that had been clamoring for freedom for far too long.

"I love you too."

They did not stay much longer in the snow.

* * *

_Year 3016 of the Third Age_

There were signs of an ugly storm approaching. The air was bracken, and the clouds felt closer than a mere overcast. The usual evening hour was replaced with an otherworldy, edgy anticipation. Éomer even felt a chill beneath his armor that had no place in late summer.

Yet none of the foreboding seemed to affect Théodred, who had ridden out beyond the rest of the _éored_ after a camp had been built. They settled in the lee of a hill that would somewhat protect the men from the oncoming storm if the wind didn't change too drastically. Éomer could barely see his cousin through the murky half light that began where the glow from the fire died.

Théodred's return from his southern journey had been joyful, though strained as it always was. Éomer felt he had not yet properly gotten to greet his kinsman, as life in Edoras had become a ritual pageant of kinds, where one misstep or misplaced word could have unforeseen consequences. Gríma Wormtongue had not been so happy at Théodred's return. Éomer found it likely that the conniver wished the prince would meet some unfortunate mishap along the roadside in his travels, but always he returned home safely.

They had taken the _éored_ away— together— before the king could be persuaded to do otherwise It was a brief a chance to speak, to plan, safely away from the city with none of Gríma's sway to interfere. He would see that they were kept apart— he always did. He especially did not like having Théodred at court. Yet Éomer's heart accused him of cowardice for leaving Éowyn behind. He would not remain away long.

He purposed through the camp, half-listening to the conversations of his men, troubled and uneasy, but his true attention was with the wayward Théodred. Something of his return had been different this time. He carried a secret, but Éomer sensed it was not the sort that destroyed lives. Rather, he sensed hope. It was a mark of their brotherhood that Éomer perceived it. He only hoped that Théodred would be willing to share. Hope was something Éomer had long not tasted. He mounted Firefoot and urged him into the darkness.

A flash of lightning illuminated Théodred's pensive silhouette as Éomer approached. He was staring west, and as Éomer joined him, he pointed without preamble at what held his attention. "Do you see?" he asked. "Though the darkness trembles and quakes and demands with all its power, still it is the light that draws the eye against all others." Éomer perceived the break in the clouds, where a valiant shaft of dying sunlight had managed to pierce through. Théodred looked over with a wise smile. "It is she who chooses to sleep. They have not conquered her. She will come again as she has always done."

"Still," said Éomer, puzzling Théodred's peace, "the storms of the sky bring life of their own. The storms of men bring only despair and destruction."

"Aye," said Théodred. "But men have their sunshine, as well. Rising or setting, the darkness cannot blot it forever. Of that I am certain. Even would this darkness take us all, Éomer, I doubt not that someday goodness would be restored."

"You speak in lovesick riddles, my friend," said Éomer, allowing himself to smile. "What change is this that infects you so?" Théodred had always been an optimist, but there was that madness in his eyes— Éomer knew it well, and couldn't believe he hadn't recognized it till now.

"I _have_ found a light, my brother. As light and clear as the spring rain itself. I know it is foolishness, yet I cannot but confess that love gives me hope."

"And does your sunbeam have a name?" Éomer asked. Even now, it could not be helped but to tease. Like all such men, however, Théodred neither noticed nor cared.

"Lothíriel," he replied.

Éomer was surprised. "The daughter of Prince Imrahil?" he asked. "Is she not a child?"

"A merry child she was, but no more. She is a woman of unrivaled grace, Éomer. As fair as the stars, with the wisdom of a king and a heart like the sea she loves so well. I intend her for the throne."

This time, Éomer actually faltered slightly in his surprise, causing Firefoot to shift anxiously beneath him. "Much more than a passing fancy," he observed, already pondering the good and ill potential of this new development. "Will Théoden king approve your choice, think you?"

"Aye, that he would, were he himself." At last, Théodred showed signs of sadness. Then he looked at Éomer again with determination. "But you must understand my full meaning, Éomer. I intend her only for a throne that is whole. She is far safer in Dol Amroth for however long it takes. And we must speak of this to no one but Éowyn." There was urgency in his gaze.

"I agree," Éomer said. "Rohan is a prison to its own, at present, let alone foreigners."

"We will keep fighting, Éomer. And I will pray one day you will meet Lothíriel and share in our joy. On that day, I will have achieved what many seek and few ever find. And I will count myself blessed."

"In the meantime," Éomer said, "the fighting is still before us. There is much to discuss. And you must rid yourself of that betraying countenance if you wish to protect your lady."

Théodred chuckled, and Éomer grinned. It was good that despite everything, there was still laughter to be had.

And love to be found.

* * *

Late in the night, the king and queen of Rohan were wide awake. In a sudden bout of hunger and inspiration, Éomer had stoked the fire to a roaring blaze near midnight, and Lothíriel had padded through the chilly hall to pilfer food from the larder. She was amazed that Froilas's noisy snuffling hadn't awoken the entire household.

Now she sat in her shift by the fire, wrapped in the biggest, warmest blanket from the bed, and toasted bread on the flames with the luxury and convenience of a long toasting spear. Éomer sat beside her, licking his fingers after a last bite of hot ham, and Lothíriel reflected on what a beautiful and bizarre day it had been. Here they sat, impulsive as children, eating light fare by the fire when the rest of the world was sleeping sagely. It had begun playfully too, with a race and a kiss in the snow, but what had come between had not been the doings of children.

She found that the memory of her time with Éomer did not now make her blush, but instead filled her with peaceful warmth that reached into her very spirit. It was far more than the pleasure of the body, for she knew that to be as fragile and temporal as youth itself. Far more meaningful was the implicit giving and receiving of trust. Lothíriel was grateful beyond expression for her husband's patience. Had he not allowed her the time he had, she knew their joy would have been sullied by uncertainty. Her only marvel, looking back, was that it had taken her so long.

"Tomorrow," Éomer said, spearing his own bread and setting it to neighbor Lothíriel's, "I shall have to resume my kingly behavior." The look of distaste on his face caused her to laugh. She couldn't believe he wasn't freezing, even this close to the fire. He was only wearing his breeches, and set a pace back from the blaze. His legs were propping up his elbows, making him look pensive as the flames danced in his eyes.

Lothíriel pulled her toasting spear toward her and pulled the piping hot bread— now quite brown— off the end with delicate fingers. She was careful to lay the spear on the flagstones and not the fur throw rug before she spoke. "A least you slept the evening away," she commented. "You won't be too tired."

"You mean _we_ won't be too tired, councilor queen."

"I'm staying abed," she returned, eyes sparkling. She popped a hot pinch of toast into her mouth, chewed and swallowed for a moment, then added, "I have determined I am not inclined to be a councilor tomorrow."

"I have determined that you have a tongue with enough cheek to rival a hobbit's," Éomer observed with a wry grin, "when you've a mind to show it." Lothíriel smiled sweetly and continued eating her toast until he asked, more seriously, "May I ask you something?" He turned his toasting spear slowly, the near end of which was resting atop his knee. The bottom half of his bread slowly began its way to matching the crisp top.

"Certainly."

"When did you first determine that… that you loved me?" The words came out awkwardly, and he avoided her eyes with intent deliberation.

Though she had pondered the question long and hard herself, Lothíriel was quiet a very, very long time before replying. At last she said, "Not with certainty until you had gone, my lord. But before that there were many little bits and pieces that I was too blind to recognize."

"With me it was different," he said, still staring intently into the fire. "There was nothing so easy in the world as to love you, Lothíriel."

Humbled, Lothíriel said nothing in reply. Instead, she asked, "Do you ever wonder how things would have been between us had Théodred lived?"

Éomer grinned. "You would not have seen much of me," he said. "Théodred would have run me to bits with affairs of lordship and responsibility." More thoughtfully, he added, "I expect I should have gone home to live in Aldburg after Éowyn was wed."

"But we should have been friends, I think."

He finally looked at her then, and smiled. "Yes, I've no doubt of it. Very good friends. It would have been a wonderful thing to see, a Rohan under Théodred's rule. It makes me almost ashamed to be so happy just now."

"Joy comes from unexpected places," Lothíriel supplied wisely. "Or so it was that Éowyn told me."

"Did you not believe her?"

"I believed… but I did not expect. I was determined to find contentment, but contentment is not the same as joy."

"How do you mean?" Éomer asked.

"Contentment," she began slowly, choosing her words with care, "is the mark of a wise and disciplined mind. It is an acknowledgement that bleak or difficult times all too often outweigh the good, and that to live life naught but _longing_ for the good is to watch it waste away in wishes. To be content is to find the small portions of peace amidst trial.

"Joy, however," she continued, "is a gift, bestowed sometimes without merit, but not to be stubbornly thrown away. As I almost did," she added softly. For a moment she shivered, the memory of the darkness she'd so recently escaped chilling her more than the winter night. She had tried to build a prison with walls of self-enforced solitude.

Éomer's toast had long since browned, and he pulled it out of the crackling flames slowly. Yet he seemed no longer interested in it, and set it aside without much thought. At last, he said, "Dwell not on things unrealized, Lothíriel, neither dreams lost nor fears escaped." His voice was subdued. "Such is a pastime of folly. You have triumphed greatly in the greatest of battles, with valor and courage. Truly you are fit to be the queen of Rohan, for you are a victorious warrior." He looked at her, his dark eyes bright with pride.

Lothíriel gave him her brightest smile. "And you my healer. Is not that strange?" Leaving the confines of her warm blanket, she edged to his side and put a hand on his careworn face. "No longer fear for me, Éomer, son of Rohan. My heart _has_ found healing and love at your hands— my king, my beloved, and my friend."

He said no more, and all else was forgotten as he drew her warmly into his embrace, kissing her with the familiarity of a thousand years for all it had hardly been more than a day. The heart of the songbird sang in triumph inside her, fierce, joyful, and wild, with a music heard only by its makers.

The song had been discovered by many and counterfeited by none. It said that sometimes love is the wonder of a sudden storm in springtime, but sometimes it is a small seed, nurtured with care, devotion, patience, and time. Its full beauty is a reward not realized until the husbandman one day turns to see that, without his realizing it, he has grown the rarest and most beautiful of all flowers.

Sometimes, love comes softly.

* * *

**Replies:**

**Jazzcat** - Er… (hides). Yeah, I posted in my LJ after I wrote the chapter because it was easy and I was too lazy to write reviews that night. Then I got swallowed by a new fandom and disinclined to work on stuff. Heh. But you have spurred me into action. I have seen Kate and Leopold once. It was sweet, but for some reason I was never really in the mood for it again. Though I do remember my favorite part being right at the end when she called to her brother that she loved him before jumping down into the time swooshy thing.

**Raider-K** - Lothíriel has always been in my mind a reflective, composed sort of character. Which I guess is why all the fanfics portraying her as a firebrand came as something of a surprise to me. A personal preference, of course, but there you have it. Thanks for the review.

**smor**- I'm sorry that the snowball thing worked out backwards than your thought. It's surprisingly difficult to keep romping in character when you've been writing your characters mostly dignified for… sixteen chapters.

**Tracey** - You know what's funny. I'm really more of a cat person myself. Not that I don't like dogs, I'm just kind of indifferent to them in general. Of course there have been specific loves, like our old sweetheart golden retriever, JJ, but she wouldn't have left much room on my tiny twin bed. LOL. Lothíriel and Éomer, however, both seem like dog people, so…

**Jaffee Leeds** - I dear goodness. Is it sad that I looked at your user name and first thought it was 'Jaffa'? Yeah. Too much Stargate! LOL. In any case, I'm always glad to find someone new enjoy my story. And your lucky in that I'll only be torturing you for _one_ more round of waiting. I've been stringing along these other folks far too long as it is.

**fandun** - Wow, that's the grandest of all compliments to be sure. Um? Thanks! LOL I always hope canon authors/ creators would approve of my work.

**Dark-Sylph** - Haha, many have threatened to do as much to Lothíriel since the beginning of this tale. Sometimes even I have done so in secret. But I hope the resolution has made all the drawn out previous stuff worth the wait. And it's always pleasing to know someone appreciates a clean story.

**Peachy Papayas** - I know, I know. Shamefully overdue, as always. Yes, he's home, and things are finally looking pretty tidy. Hope it wasn't too easily resolved for you! LoL

**Blue Eyes at Night** - Hehe, I think Froilas is more the type to think, "Hey, why'd you wake me up from my— oooh, dust mites!" so she's probably not going to be out for vengeance anytime soon.

**Frigg** - Yay, a delurker! Thank you for your very kind review. Sometimes I think I go overboard with the gigundo prose, so I'm glad somebody enjoys it. Hehe.

**Maddy051280** - No, Froilas is certainly not the greatest of sentinels. Note my review to Blue Eyes (points up). LOL

**Estel de Rodeuse** - My skills at longevity started and ended in the middle chapters of this story. Whenever I feel like I haven't written for long enough, I just read the first chapter. It's only one scene! Mwuahah! No, seriously, though. It's not my intention to write short chapters on purpose. It's just that I write what the chapter needs and sometimes it doesn't take much. Thanks for the review!

**Linnath** - No news on the website. I think the Youth Company's getting off to a slower start than my directors anticipated. And I just know it's going to slip my mind after I'm done posting this story. If you're still interested, send me an email roundabout March or so. I _should_ have more information then, because that's theoretically when we'll be gearing up for auditions.

**Elwen of Lorien** - Their present course definitely seems a smoother road from here on out.

**wonderye** - A little more happiness, yes. ;-)

**Moryan** - You do realize you wrote about a 1:9 ratio of this story to LCS, right? LOL It's making me laugh. FMN is slower going right now more because I'm trying to plot out the big action sequence(s) and those always take longer because they're not as interesting to write. As always, the spunky reviews are awesome!

**Aranel Abeille** - Hehe! I love the morning glory metaphor too. I was excited when it dropped into my lap. I don't tend to see as many morning glories around here (Ohio) as I did when I lived in NC.

**lsoa** - The snow-romping was inspired by my love of watching people who have never properly experienced snow do so for the first time, and also for a time I stood in some really gorgeous snow with a boy I was half-mad in love with and it felt very magical. (Alas, he was oblivious to me in that respect, but it was still nice).

**Lunair** - I think in some ways they always have understood each other. Or at least understood how painful it was for each other, trying to adapt.

**geek-chick** - Hahaha. Yes, Éomer is larger than life. Normally I would not allow myself to get away with such an indulgence, but Tolkien did it before me, so I say fire away! And I really liked your "details vs. summary" balance comment. I never examined those two different approaches in that way before. I noticed when I'd written perhaps seven or eight chapters that I very often (but not always) tended to begin a chapter with some sort of omniscient description of the climate or landscape, so I decided to run with it, and open the chapters that way when I was stuck for a beginning. I'm only hoping it didn't come off as redundant to some people. Oh well.

**skinnyrita** - um, wow. Your offer is very intriguing, though I daresay I prefer my Éomer less sticky. LOL. Thanks for the review. **ivorybrowneyes** - Well, he's right, he _is_ the king, you know. ;-)

**Ramarama** - Undoubtable charm. Hehe. Some would say irresistible, but she certainly did her best on that score, didn't she?

**Iluvien** - Oh dear goodness. I hope my snow romance scene didn't shatter your lovely analogy of cold and warm! LOL You make me feel so smart. As I said to Mely when someone else was praising particular "ingenious" editing choices I'd made on a fanvid, I feel like Speilberg being told all his suspenseful Hitchokian filming for Jaws was so brilliant, when in reality it was only because the shark machine was broken. Maybe I shouldn't admit I had no intention of doing any of that cool-sounding stuff, but that would not contribute to humility, so… LOL Always look forward to your reviews.

**Eokat** - Sorry this wait was probably just as long, but… at least there's only one wait left, eh? Hehe.

**Lothíriel of Rohan** - Pfft. Melodrama's _so_ not me. (hides new favorite starcrossed lovers 'ship that she's been poring over for the past five days behind back). Um, well… maybe not, but I don't think it would come off as well if I was writing it and not Joss Whedon. ;-)

**amylikes2hug** - "Real" is one of the greatest compliments a writer can receive. Thank you. :-)

**Solemido** - Yes, I'm afraid this story is less on the lightness than it is other things. Still, sometimes humor is a point of view. Certainly glad you're enjoying the story anyway!

**Sarah** - Glad to hear it. ;-)

**HobbitKim** - Wow, your review was very emphatic. But I'm glad I seem to have made an impression.

**Echo Bunny** - Alas, no ten chapters. They'd all be rather redundant, I'm afraid. There is, however, one tiny part left to go which I hope everybody will enjoy.

**Angelimir** - I'm so glad you enjoyed Théodred! He was difficult to differentiate from Éomer, especially with no canon reference to go buy, but I've come to love him just as well as the other two.

**katydidnt** - Thanks! I love your user name

**LalaithElerrina** - Sometimes I don't deserve Jazz as a reader. LOL And wow, you thanks for the barrage of compliments. They were sweet.

**Deandra** - Yes, yes. I was very bad and lazy and held back on the available update. Perhaps sometime soon I'll check out my snow-romping "peer scene" ;-)

* * *

**A/N:** Well, folks, that is essentially the end. There will be a brief epilogue to tag it, but it contributes nothing to the plot, really. I should point out that giving the last chapter the same title as the book _and_ the last line were nods to this book's namesake. Also, there is a strange (and arguable) parallel to this story and the Bible verse at the beginning of the chapter. For those of you unfamiliar with the lesser-known moments of the Bible, In the first book of I Kings, a young wife is chosen for King David to nurse him and keep his bed warm as he's dying. (Okay, yeah, kind of gross on the surface, but I'm pretty sure the nursemaid was the main idea). Her name was Abishag the Shummamite, and many Bible scholars/ historians connect her as the same Shunnamite who was Solomon's great love in the Song of Songs. If one accepts this interpretation (even momentarily), the connections between these three figures to Théodred, Lothíriel, and Éomer, respectively, kind of caused me to pause a moment when I realized it, especially as I was inspired to use the verse beforehand.

In any case, the verse is probably my favorite of all the scriptures concerning romantic love, because passion between people who cannot function as plain friends (either before or after the sparks) just isn't love in my book. It is certainly what I'm searching for in my own private watchings, and part of what I hope this story has had to say.

I hope everyone enjoyed!

Saché


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